LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE 


LITERARY  REMAINS 


OF  THE  LATE 


WILLIS  GAYLOED  CLAM, 


INCLUDING 


THE  OLLAPODIANA  PAPERS, 


THE 


SPIRIT   OF  LIFE, 


AND  A  SELECTION  FROM  HIS 


VARIOUS  PROSE  AND   POETICAL  WRITINGS. 


EDITED   BY 

LEWIS    GAYLORD    CLARK. 


NEW-YORK: 
BURGESS,    STRINGER,    &    CO., 

232   BROADWAY,  CORNEA  OF  ANN   STREET. 
1844. 


LIBRARY 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844, 
BY  LEWIS  GAYLORD  CLARK, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District  of 

New  York. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  REDFIELD  &  SAVAGE, 
13  CHAMBERS  STREET,  N.  Y. 


TO 

DAVID  GRAHAM,  ESQ., 

OF    NEW-YORK, 

£ls  a  (Testimonial 

OF 

CORDIAL  REGARD  AND  ESTEEM, 

THE  ENSUING  PAGES 

FROM  THE  PEN  OF  HIS  LIFE-LONG  FRIEND  AND  ADMIRER, 

ARE  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  BY 

THE  EDITOR. 


MEMOIR 


OP 


YILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 


IT  was  my  purpose,  in  introducing  the  ensuing  pages  to  the  public,  to 
have  accompanied  them  with  a  more  elaborate  Memoir  of  the  life  of  their  au 
thor  than  had  hitherto  appeared ;  the  chief  additional  attraction  of  which, 
however,  I  had  hoped  to  present  in  extracts  from  his  familiar  correspon 
dence.  I  say  *  chief  attraction,'  because  in  the  able  Memoir  from  the  pen 
of  his  eminent  friend,  Hon.  Judge  CONRAD,  of  Philadelphia,  published  in 
•  GRAHAM'S  Magazine'  for  1840,  and  in  the  excellent  and  authentic  sketch 
which  prefaces  the  selections  from  his  verse  in  Mr.  GRISWOLD'S  *  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  America' — of  the  former  of  which  the  Departed  often  expres 
sed  his  approbation — all  that  is  essential  for  the  information  of  the  reader 
was  felicitously  and  succinctly  embodied.  But,  as  I  have  said,  something 
more  than  this  I  had  contemplated  ;  something  which,  under  his  own  hand, 
and  in  the  easy  play  of  unstudied  correspondence  with  his  most  intimate 
friend  on  earth,  should  be  an  exponent  of  his  *  inner  life,'  his  every-day 
thoughts,  impulses,  and  affections.  "Why  I  have  not  been  able  to  do  this,  I 
shall  now  briefly  explain. 

For  many  many  months  previous  to  the  death  of  my  twin-brother,  that 
event  was  constantly  in  my  mind,  and  tinged  the  whole  current  of  my 
thoughts.  Each  sun  that  rose  and  set  upon  us,  I  'counted  toward  his  last 
resting-place ;'  and  the  slow-swinging  pendulum  of  a  clock,  accidentally  en 
countered,  appeared  to  me  to  have  but  one  purpose ;  it  was  notching  his  re 
sistless  progress  to  an  early  grave.  When  the  last  bitter  hour  came ;  when 
all  that  was  mortal  of  my  'severed  half  had  ceased  to  live;  nothing  it  seemed 
could  add  to  the  poignant  sense  of  present  bereavement.  I  was  told  indeed 
that  Time,  the  great  Healer,  would  soften  the  bitterness  of  my  regret;  that 
even  the  memory  of  a  past  sorrow  might  yet  become  'pleasant,  though 
mournful  to  the  soul.'  Among  many  letters  which  I  received  soon  after 
WILLIS'S  death,  was  one  which  I  can  not  resist  the  inclination  to  quote 
here: 

'  Sunnyside  Cottage,  July  8,  1841. 
*MT  DEAR  SIR: 

*  I  HAVE  not  sooner  replied  to  your  letter  of  the  eighteenth  of  June,  com 
municating  the  intelligence  of  the  untimely  death  of  your  brother,  because  in 


6  MEMOIR    OF 

fact  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  reply.  It  is  one  of  those  cases  in  which  all  ordinary 
attempts  at  consolation  are  apt  to  appear  trite  and  cold,  and  can  never  reach 
the  deep-seated  affliction.  In  such  cases,  it  always  appears  to  me  better 
to  leave  the  heart  to  struggle  with  its  own  sorrows,  and  medicine  its  own  ills ; 
and  indeed,  in  healthful  minds,  as  in  healthful  bodies,  Providence  has  benefi 
cently  implanted  self-healing  qualities,  that  in  time  close  up  and  almost  ob 
literate  the  deepest  wounds. 

*  I  do  not  recollect  to  have  met  your  brother  more  than  once,*  but  our 
'  interview  left  a  most  favorable  impression,  which  was  confirmed  and  strength 
ened  by  all  I  afterward  knew  of  him.  His  career,  though  brief,  has  been 
useful,  honorable,  popular,  and  I  trust  generally  happy ;  and  he  has  left  be 
hind  him  writings  which  will  make  men  love  his  memory  and  lament  his  loss. 
Under  such  circumstances,  a  man  has  not  lived  in  vain ;  and  though  his 
death  be  premature,  there  is  consolation  to  his  survivors  springing  from 
his  very  grave.  'Believe  me,  my  dear  sir, 

« Yours  very  truly, 

'WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

*L.  GATLOED  CLARK,  Esq.' 

Replete  with  characteristic  feeling  and  beauty  as  is  this  most  kind  note, 
which  is  cited  as  one  of  many  kindred  letters  of  condolence  that  reached  me 
at  this  period,  I  can  not  let  it  pass  to  the  reader  without  saying,  even  at  the 
risk  of  exposing  a  mind  bereft  of  self-healing  qualities,  and  unhealthful,  that 
the  deep  wound  which  I  have  received  only  yawns  the  wider  with  the  lapse 
of  time.  Although  '  it  is  only  dust  that  descends  to  dust ;'  although  it  was 
'not  the  brother,  the  friend,  the  cherished  being,'  that  went  down  into  the 
grave,  to  sleep  in  cold  obstruction  ;  yet  it  is  to  that  grave  that  Memory  still 
points  the  unmoving  finger.  There  every  phase  of  nature  is  earliest  marked. 
There  springs  the  first  tender  green  of  the  early  spring-time ;  there  upon 
the  long  grass  shimmers  down  the  sun-light  through  the  heavy  foliage  of 
thick-leaved  June  ;  there  wails  the  November  wind ;  there  rustle  the  withered 
leaves  and  fall  the  'sorrowing  rains'  of  melancholy  autumn;  and  there,  in 
the  howling  midnight  storm,  over  the  walls  of  St.  Peter's  church-yard,  Win 
ter  'weaves  his  frolic  architecture  of  snow.'  There,  features  once  radiant 
with  intellectual  light  have  faded  into  indistinctness ;  there  the  eye  that  loved 
to  look  upon  all  the  glorious  works  of  GOD,  is  closed  to  color,  and  the  ear  to 
sound;  there  the  warm  hand,  whose  cordial  grasp  of  fraternal  affection  can 
never  be  forgotten,  moulders  at  the  crumbling  side.  And  upon  the  corres 
pondence  traced  through  many  years  by  that  now  wasted  hand,  I  can  not  yet 
look.  Since  the  announcement,  by  the  publishers,  of  the  immediate  issue 
of  the  present  work,  I  have  tried  repeatedly  to  overcome  this  reluctance,  but 
I  can  not.  It  may  be  a  morbid  feeling — doubtless  it  is;  but  it  is  not  less  cer 
tain  that  with  me  it  is  irresistible.  «  There  is  some  latent,  some  mysterious 

•  THEY  met  in  an  official  capacity,  I  believe,  at  the  nuptials  of  an  old  and  valued 
friend  of  my  brother's,  DAVID  GRAHAM,  Esq.,  of  New  York.  The  interview  is 
pleasantly  alluded  to  in  one  of  the  '  OUapodiana'  chapters  which  ensue. 


WILLIS    GAYLORD    CLARK.  7 

yet  undeniable  connection'  (says  an  eloquent  writer,  in  allusion  to  the  corres 
pondence  of  departed  friends)  'between  those  lifeless  manuscripts  and  the 
beings  whose  affections  seem  even  yet  to  haunt  and  hover  round  them  ;  and 
the  pulse  beats,  and  the  blood  gushes  through  the  loyal  heart,  as  it  vibrates 
again  to  the  well-remembered  words,  and  half  listens  for  the  voice  that  might 
have  uttered  them.'  It  is  this  ordeal  which  I  can  not  yet  brave. 

Let  me  hope,  therefore,  that  the  reader  will  receive  my  apology  for  omit 
ting  what  I  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  present;  and  accept  the  following  brief 
Memoir,  as  embracing  all  the  essential  facts  in  the  history  of  its  subject. 
We  quote  from  the  article  in  '  GRAHAM'S  Magazine'  to  which  we  have  al 
luded  : 

1  OF  the  several  excellent  writers  whose  names  we  have  placed  upon  our 
catalogue  as  worthy  of  the  honor  we  intend  to  do  them  (a  series  of  portraits 
of  popular  Philadelphia  authors,  accompanied  by  suitable  notices  of  their 
lives  and  works,)  the  first  we  select  is  that  of  WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK,  whose 
rare  abilities  as  a  poet,  and  whose  qualities  as  a  man,  justify  this  distinction. 
The  life  of  a  student  is  usually,  almost  necessarily,  indeed,  uneventful.  Dis 
inclined  by  habit  and  association,  and  generally  unfitted  by  temperament,  to 
mingle  in  the  ruder  scenes,  the  shocks  and  conflicts  that  mark  the  periods 
of  sterner  existence,  his  biography  furnishes  but  few  salient  points  upon 
which  an  inquirer  can  take  hold.  In  the  little  circle  which  his  affections 
have  gathered  around  him,  he  finds  abundant  sources  of  enjoyment  and  inter 
est  ;  and  though  the  world  without  may  ring  with  his  name,  he  pursues  his 
quiet  and  peaceful  way,  undisturbed  by,  if  not  insensible  to,  its  praises.  Such 
has  been  eminently  the  case  with  the  subject  of  this  notice.  With  feelings 
peculiarly  fitted  for  social  and  domestic  intercourse,  and  a  heart  overflowing 
with  the  warmest  and  most  generous  impulses,  and  a  shrinking  sensitiveness 
to  obtrusive  public  regard,  Mr.  CLARK  has  always  sought  those  scenes  in 
which,  while  his  talents  found  free  scope,  his  native  modesty  was  unwounded, 
and  he  could  exercise  without  restraint  the  loftier  charities  of  his  nature. 

*  Mr.  CLARK  was  born  in  Otisco,  a  rich  agricultural  town  in  the  county  of 
Onondaga,  in  the  State  of  New  York.  His  father  was  a  soldier  in  the  days  of 
the  revolution,  whose  valor  and  services  won  for  him  tributes  of  acknowledg 
ment  from  the  delegates  of  a  grateful  nation.  He  was,  moreover,  a  man  of 
reading  and  talent,  fond  of  collecting  and  studying  useful  books,  and  much 
given  to  philosophical  pursuits  and  inquiries.  In  his  son  WILLIS  he  found 
an  apt  and  anxious  pupil ;  and  the  judicious  teachings  of  the  father,  aided  by 
the  classic  inculcations  of  the  Rev.  GEORGE  COLTON,  a  maternal  relative,  laid 
a  broad  and  solid  foundation  for  those  acquirements  which  have  since  added 
grace  and  vigor  to  the  outpourings  of  genius.  At  a  very  early  age,  Mr.  CLARK 
manifested  poetic  inclinations.  Amid  the  glorious  scenery  that  was  outspread 
on  every  side  of  him,  he  soon  began  to  feel  the  yearnings  of  his  Divine  nature. 
The  spirit  that  was  within  him,  stimulated  by  the  magnificence  of  these  ex 
ternal  objects,  could  not  be  repressed;  and  he  painted  the  beauties  of  plain 
and  mountain  ;  of  the  flower-clad  valley  and  the  forest-crowned  hill;  of  the 
gorgeous  going  down  of  the  sun  amid  a  profusion  of  dazzling  tints  and  hues 
such  as  nowhere  else  accompanied  his  setting ;  of  the  rich  and  van-colored 


8  MEMOIR   OP 

autumnal  foliage  that  shone  in  melancholy  brightness ;  of  the  clear  lake, 
whose  unruffled  bosom  was  placid  as  the  soul  of  peace ;  in  terms  so  glow 
ing,  and  with  a  distinctness  and  force,  that  showed  an  eye  so  quick  to  per 
ceive,  and  a  mind  so  capable  to  appreciate,  the  loveliness  of  creation,  that 
it  at  once  secured  to  him  praise  and  admiration.  As  he  grew  older,  there  was 
mingled  with  this  exquisite  power  of  description  a  tone  of  gentle  solemnity, 
a  delicate  sadness  of  thought ;  a  strain  of  seriousness  such  as  showed  a  para 
mount  desire  to  gather  from  the  scenes  and  images  reflected  through  his  po 
etical  faculties,  useful  lessons  of  morality.  We  remember  very  well  when 
our  attention  was  first  drawn  to  his  productions,  and  he  was  then  but  a  boy, 
that  we  were  impressed  with  the  fact  just  mentioned ;  and  we  admired  that 
one  so  young,  should  thus  address  himself  directly  to  the  hearts  of  his  read 
ers,  and  stir  up  within  them  founts  of  tenderness  and  piety. 

'After  completing  his  scholastic  course,  Mr.  CLARK  repaired  to  Philadel 
phia,  whither  his  reputation  as  a  poet  of  much  skill  and  a  high  degree  of 
promise,  had  already  preceded  him.  Soon  after  his  arrival,  under  the  aus 
pices  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  ELY,  his  patron  and  friend,  he  started  a  literary  jour 
nal,  similar  in  its  design  and  character  to  the  'Mirror'  of  New  York.  Young, 
inexperienced,  and  therefore  incapable  of  managing  the  business  details  of 
this  undertaking  with  the  necessary  regard  to  its  economy,  he  found  that  the 
profits  were  disproportioned  to  the  labor,  and  was  soon  induced  to  abandon 
it.  He  conducted  it,  however,  long  enough  to  show  that  his  powers  of  wri 
ting  were  not  confined  to  poetry  alone,  but  that  in  various  departments  of  prose 
literature,  previously  unattempted  by  him,  he  possessed  great  aptitude ;  and 
his  criticisms  on  books  and  the  arts  indicated  a  vigorous  and  well-disciplined 
taste,  considerable  power  of  analysis,  just  discrimination,  and  above  all,  a 
generous  forbearance  toward  all  who  were  the  subjects  of  his  commentaries. 
About  the  time  this  project  failed,  the  Rev.  Dr.  BRANTLEY,  a  Baptist  cler 
gyman  of  great  eminence,  then  in  the  pastoral  charge  of  a  church  in  this 
city,  and  now  President  of  the  College  of  South  Carolina,*  assumed  the  care 
of  the  'Columbian  Star,'  a  religious  and  literary  periodical,  and  associated 
Mr.  CLARK  with  him  in  its  conduct.  From  this  connection  Mr.  CLARK  de 
rived  many  advantages.  To  an  intellect  of  the  very  highest  order ;  a  copious 
supply  of  various  and  rare  learning;  an  eloquence  which  illuminated  what 
ever  it  was  applied  to ;  a  remarkable  purity  and  clearness  of  style,  and  the 
most  vigorous  habits  of  thought,  Dr.  BRANTLEY  united  a  spirit  touched  with 
the  finest  impulses  of  humanity,  and  an  affability  of  demeanor,  which,  while 
it  imparted  grace  to  his  manner,  made  him  in  all  circumstances,  easy  and 
accessible.  Upon  his  young  friend  and  associate,  the.se  qualities  acting  with 
a  sympathetic  influence,  produced  a  lasting  and  most  salutary  impression. 
The  counsels  of  the  divine  pointed  him  to  the  path  in  which  he  ought  to 
tread ;  the  example  of  the  scholar  inspired  him  with  a  generous  emulation  ; 
and  the  mild  benevolence  of  the  Christian  gentleman  taught  him  the  im 
portance  of  cultivating  benignity  of  temper,  and  of  subduing  all  untoward 

*  THIS  institution  subsequently  bestowed  upon  Mr.  CLARK  the  honorary  degree  of 
Bachelor  of  Arts. 


WILLIS    GAYLORD    CLARK.  9 

passions.  While  he  was  connected  with  the  'Columbian  Star,'  Mr.  CLARK 
published  numerous  fugitive  pieces  of  a  high  grade  of  merit.  Most  of  these 
he  suffered  to  remain  uncollected,  though  many  of  them  were  stamped  with 
all  the  marks  of  genius.  A  few  were  afterward  published  in  a  duodecimo 
volume,  along  with  a  poem  of  considerable  length,  called  the  'Spirit  of  Life,' 
originally  prepared  as  an  exercise  for  a  collegiate  exhibition. 

'  Mr.  CLARK,  after  an  agreeable  and  instructive  association  with  the  rev 
erend  editor  of  the  '  Columbian  Star,'  was  solicited  to  take  charge  of  the 
'Philadelphia  Gazette,'  the  oldest  and  one  of  the  most  respectable  daily  jour 
nals  published  in  this  city.  With  this  solicitation  he  saw  proper  to  comply, 
and  from  the  grateful  cultivation  of  polite  literature,  he  turned  to  the  dry 
and  fatiguing  duty  of  superintending  the  multifarious  concerns  of  a  political, 
commercial,  and  advertising  newspaper.  In  his  new  vocation,  he  acquitted 
himself  with  credit  and  honor,  and  ultimately  became  the  proprietor  of  the 
establishment,  which  he  continued  to  manage  and  direct  until  within  a  few 
days  of  his  death.  Though  avowedly  partisan  in  his  predilections,  and  doing 
battle  in  good  earnest  for  the  cause  which  he  espoused,  Mr.  CLARK  never 
sacrificed  his  own  opinions  to  any  question  or  suggestion  of  expediency. 
Never  slavish,  never  even  submissive  to  the  dictates  of  self-assumed  author 
ity,  he  upon  all  occasions  preserved  a  fair,  free,  and  upright  policy,  which  de 
servedly  placed  him  high  in  the  estimation  of  all  honest  and  independent  men. 

'In  1836,  Mr.  CLARK  was  married  to  ANNE  POYNTELL  CALDCLEUGH,  the 
daughter  of  one  of  our  most  wealthy  and  respectable  citizens.  In  this  lady 
great  personal  beauty  and  varied  accomplishments  were  joined  to  a  most 
tender  and  affectionate  disposition,  a  meekness  and  serenity  of  mind,  that 
nothing  could  disturb.  With  such  qualities  in  his  bride,  qualities  that  found 
an  answering  echo  in  his  own  bosom,  the  married  career  of  Mr.  CLARK  was 
for  a  time  one  of  unclouded  sunshine.  Unhappily,  his  wife,  whose  consti 
tution  was  naturally  delicate,  was  seized  with  that  most  terrible  disease  of 
our  climate,  consumption,  and  after  a  long  period  of  protracted  suffering, 
which  she  bore  with  a  meekness  and  gentleness  that  endeared  her  infi 
nitely  to  her  friends,  she  was  taken  away  in  the  very  prime  of  her  youth 
and  happiness.  A  blow  like  this  fell  with  a  crushing  weight  upon  the  hopes 
and  enjoyments  of  her  surviving  partner;  and  in  various  tributes  to  her 
memory,  he  evinced  the  deep  grief  of  his  afflicted  spirit. 

'  Of  Mr.  CLARK'S  general  merits  as  a  poet  but  one  opinion  can  be  enter 
tained.  In  the  sweetness  of  his  numbers,  the  elegance  of  his  diction,  the 
propriety  of  his  sentiments,  and  the  chasteness  of  his  imagery,  he  is  scarcely 
surpassed  by  any  living  writer.  His  earlier  productions,  as  we  have  aheady 
said,  are  all  tinged  by  a  hue  of  sadness,  but  it  is  a  sadness  without  gloom  ; 
and  while  they  vividly  portray  the  chances  and  changes  of  life,  and  the  shift 
ing  aspects  of  nature,  they  inculcate  the  important  truth  that  there  is  a  higher 
and  a  better  world,  for  which  our  affections  are  chastened,  and  our  de 
sires  made  perfect  by  suffering.  In  an  extended  notice  of  Mr.  CLARK'S 
writings,  published  in  the  '  American  Quarterly  Review,'  we  find  a  concise 
and  forcible  delineation  of  his  peculiarities  and  style.  After  some  general 
remarks,  the  reviewer  says : 


10  MEMOIR    OF 

'  WITH  the  exception  of  a  small  volume  published  some  years  since,  we  believe  that 
Mr.  CLARK'S  effusions  have  not  been  collected.  They  have  appeared  at  irregular  and 
often  remote  intervals  ;  and  though  their  beauty  and  pathos  have  won  the  applause  of 
the  first  writers  of  this  country  and  England,  they  have  not  made  that  impression 
which  if  united  they  could  not  fail  to  produce.  Mr.  CLARK'S  distinguishing  traits  are 


harmonies  of  nature,  and  the  same  melody  of  style,  characterise,  in  an  almost  equal 
degree,  these  delightful  poets.  The  ordinary  tone  of  Mr.  CLARK'S  poetry  is  gentle, 
solemn,  and  tender.  His  effusions  flow  in  melody  from  a  heart  full  of  the  sweetest  af 
fections,  and  upon  their  surface  is  mirrored  all  that  is  gentle  and  beautiful  in  nature, 
rendered  more  beautiful  by  the  light  of  a  lofty  and  religious  imagination.  He  is  one 
of  the  few  writers  who  have  succeeded  in  making  the  poetry  of  religion  attractive. 
Young  is  sad,  and  austere,  Cowper  is  at  times  constrained,  and  Wordsworth  is  much 
too  dreamy  for  the  mass  ;  but  with  CLARK  religion  is  unaffectedly  blended  with  the 
simplest  and  sweetest  affections  of  the  heart.  His  poetry  glitters  with  the  dew,  not 
of  Castaly,  but  of  heaven.  No  man,  however  cold,  can  resist  the  winning  and  natural 
sweetness  and  melody  of  the  tone  of  piety  that  pervades  his  poems.  All  the  voices 
of  nature  speak  to  him  of  religion  j  he 

'Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything.' 

There  is  not  an  effusion,  and  scarce  a  line  in  his  poetical  writings  that  is  not  replete 
with  this  spirit.  The  entire  absence  of  affectation  or  artifice  in  Mr.  CLARK'S  poetry 
also  deserves  the  highest  commendation.  Though  always  poetical  he  is  always  natu 
ral  ;  he  sacrifices  nothing  for  effect,  and  does  not  seek  his  subjects  or  his  figures  from 
the  startling  or  the  extravagant.  There  is  an  uniform  and  uninterrupted  propriety  in 
his  writings.  His  taste  is  not  merely  cultivated  and  refined,  but  sensitively  fastidious, 
and  shrinks,  with  instinctive  delicacy,  from  anything  that  could  distort  the  tranquil 
and  tender  beauty  of  his  lines.  His  diction  is  neither  quaint  nor  common-place,  bloat 
ed  nor  tame,  but  is  natural,  classic,  and  expressive.  In  the  art  of  versification,  he  ap 
pears  to  be  nearly  perfect  j  we  know  no  poet  in  the  language  who  is  more  regular,  ani 
mated,  and  euphonious. 

-  {  The  Spirit  of  Life'  is  one  of  the  most  labored,  though  certainly  not  the  most  suc 
cessful  of  Mr.  CLARK'S  poems.  It  occupies  the  larger  portion  of  the  only  volume 
which  he  has  given  to  the  public.  The  dedication,  though  we  confess  it  is  not  pre 
cisely  to  our  taste,  is  enthusiastic  and  fervid.  It  is  excused,  however,  by  the  general 
admiration  at  that  time  manifested  for  the  author  of  Pelham,  and  was  perhaps  due  as 
a  grateful  tribute  to  a  distinguished  author,  who  had  previously  spoken  of  his  poems 
in  high  terms,  and  of  himself  as  a  gentlemen, '  who  has  an  enviable  genius,  to  be  ex 
cited  in  a  new  and  unexhausted  country,  and  a  glorious  career  before  him,  where,  in 
manners,  scenery,  and  morals,  hitherto  undescribed  and  unexhausted,  he  can  find 
wells  where  he  himself  may  be  the  first  to  drink.' 

'  As  a  prose  writer,  Mr.  CLARK  possesses  a  rare  combination  of  dissimilar  qualities. 
At  times-  eloquent,  vehement,  and  impassioned,  pouring  out  his  thoughts  in  a  fervent 
tide  of  strong  and  stirring  language,  he  sweeps  the  feelings  of  his  readers  along  with 
him  ;  and  at  others  playful,  jocular,  and  buoyant,  he  dallies  with  his  subject,  and  min 
gles  mirth  and  argument,  drollery  and  gravity,  so  oddly,  yet  so  aptly,  that  the  effect 
is  irresistible.  Few  men  have  a  more  acute  perception  of  the  ludicrous  ;  few  under 
stand  better  how  to  move  the  strings  of  laughter,  and  when  he  chooses  to  indulge  in 
strains  of  humor,  his  good-natured  jests,  and '  quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles,' show 
the  fullness  of  his  powers,  and  the  benevolent  strain  of  his  feelings.  In  kindness  and 
pathos,  when  such  is  the  bent  of  his  inclination,  his  prose  essays  are  not  inferior  to 
his  poetical  compositions.' 

*  Mr.  CLARK  was  for  many  years  a  liberal  contributor  to  the  periodical  and 
annual  literature  of  this  country.  He  was  also  a  frequent  correspondent  of 
the  leading  English  magazines.  'The  tales  and  essays,'  says  the  author  of 
'The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,'  'which  he  found  leisure  to  write  for 
the  New  York  KNICKERBOCKER  Magazine,  and  especially  a  series  of  amu 
sing  papers  under  the  quaint  title  of  *  Ollapodiana^  will  long  be  remem 
bered  for  their  heart-moving  and  mirth-provoking  qualities.' 

A  portrait  accompanied  the  sketch  to  which  we  have  referred ;  but  it 


WILLIS    GAYLORD    CLARK.  11 

failed  to  present  a  faithful  representation  of  the  features  of  its  subject.  In 
person  Mr.  CLARK  was  of  the  middle  height ;  his  form  was  erect  and  manly, 
and  his  countenance  pleasing  and  expressive.  In  ordinary  intercourse  he 
was  cheerful  and  animated,  and  he  was  studious  to  conform  to  the  conven 
tional  usages  of  society.  Warm-hearted,  confiding,  and  generous,  he  was 
a  true  friend ;  and  by  those  who  knew  him  intimately,  he  was  much  beloved.' 

THE  following  account  of  the  last  hours  of  the  subject  of  this  Memoir 
was  written  by  the  undersigned  for  the  'Editor's  Table'  of  the  KNICKER 
BOCKER  Magazine  for  July,  1841 : 

*  OUR  brother  is  no  more!'  DEATH,  the  pale  messenger,  has  beckoned 
him  silently  away;  and  the  spirit  which  kindled  with  so  many  elevated 
thoughts ;  which  explored  the  chambers  of  human  affection,  and  awakened 
so  many  warm  sympathies  ;  which  rejoiced  with  the  glad,  and  grieved  with 
the  sorrowing,  has  ascended  to  mansions  of  eternal  repose.  And  there  is 
one,  reader,  who  above  all  others  feels  how  much  gentleness  of  soul,  how- 
much  fraternal  affection  and  sincere  friendship ;  how  much  joyous  hilarity, 
goodness,  poetry,  have  gone  out  of  the  world;  and  he  will  be  pardoned  for 
dwelling  in  these  pages,  so  often  enriched  by  the  genius  of  the  Departed, 
upon  the  closing  scenes  of  his  earthly  career.  Since  nearly  a  twelve-month 
the  deceased  has  *  died  daily'  in  the  eyes  of  the  writer  of  this  feeble  tribute. 
He  saw  that  Disease  sat  at  his  heart,  and  was  gnawing  at  its  cruel  leisure ; 
that  in  the  maturity  of  every  power,  in  the  earthly  perfection  of  every  fac 
ulty  ;  '  when  experience  had  given  facility  to  action  and  success  to  endeavor,* 
he  was  fast  going  down  to  darkness  and  the  worm.  Thenceforth  were  trea 
sured  up  every  soul-fraught  epistle  and  the  recollection  of  each  recurring 
interview,  growing  more  and  more  frequent,  until  at  length  Life  like  a  spent 
steed  '  panted  to  its  goal,'  and  Death  sealed  up  the  glazing  eye  and  stilled 
the  faltering  tongue.  Leaving  these,  however,  with  many  other  treasured 
remains  and  biographical  facts  for  future  reference  and  preservation  in  this 
Magazine,  we  pass  to  the  following  passages  of  a  letter  recently  received 
from  a  late  but  true  friend  of  the  lamented  deceased,  Rev.  Dr.  DUCACHET, 
Rector  of  St.  Stephen's  Church,  Philadelphia  ;  premising  merely,  that  the 
reverend  gentleman  had  previously  called  upon  him  at  his  special  instance, 
in  the  last  note  he  ever  penned ;  that  '  his  religious  faith  was  manifested  in 
a  manner  so  solemn,  so  frank,  and  so  cordial,'  as  to  convince  the  affectionate 
pastor  that  the  failing  invalid,  aware  that  he  must  die  of  the  illness  under 
which  he  was  suffering,  had  long  been  seeking  divine  assistance  to  prepare 
him  for  the  issue  so  near  at  hand  : 

'At  four  o'clock  on  Friday  p.  M.  the  day  before  his  death,  I  saw  him 
again,  he  himself  having  selected  the  time,  thinking  that  he  was  strongest 
in  the  afternoon.  But  there  was  an  evident  change  for  the  worse ;  and  he 
was  laboring  under  fever.  His  religious  feelings  were  however  even  more 
satisfactory,  and  his  views  more  clear,  than  the  day  before.  He  assured  me 
that  he  enjoyed  a  sweet  peace  in  his  mind,  and  that  he  had  no  apprehen 
sion  about  death.  He  was  '  ready  to  depart'  at  any  moment.  1  was  unwil 
ling  to  disturb  him  by  much  talking,  or  a  very  long  visit,  and  made  several 


12  MEMOIR    OF 

attempts  to  leave  him ;  but  in  the  most  affectionate  and  pressing  mannerr 
not  to  be  resisted,  he  urged  me  to  remain.  His  heart  seemed  full  of  joy  and 
peace  ;  overflowing  with  gratitude  to  GOD  for  his  goodness,  and  with  kind 
ness  to  me.  Leaving  him,  after  an  hour's  interview,  I  promised  to  return 
on  Saturday  A.  M.,  at  ten  o'clock,  and  to  administer  baptism  to  him  then.  This 
was  done  accordingly,  in  the  presence  of  his  father-in-law,  and  three  or  four 
other  friends  and  connexions,  whom  he  had  summoned  to  his  bed,  as  he 
told  me,  for  the  express  purpose  of  letting  them  see  his  determination  to 
profess  the  faith  of  the  gospel  which  in  life  he  had  so  long  neglected.  It 
was  a  solemn,  moving  sight ;  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  affecting  I  ever 
saw.  More  devotion,  humility,  and  placid  confidence  in  GOD,  I  never  saw 
in  any  sick  man.  I  mentioned  to  him  that  as  his  strength  was  evidently  de 
clining,  it  would  be  well  for  him  to  say  every  thing  he  desired  to  say  to  me 
then,  as  his  voice  and  his  faculties  might  fail.  He  then  affectionately  placed 
his  arms  around  my  neck ;  gently  drew  my  ear  near  to  his  lips,  that  I  might 
hear  his  whispers ;  and  after  thanking  me  over  and  over  again  for  my  small 
attentions  to  him,  which  his  gratitude  magnified  into  very  high  services,  he 
proceeded  to  tell  me  what  he  wished  done  with  his  '  poor  body.'  He  expres 
sed  very  great  anxiety  to  see  you,  and  he  very  much  feared  that  he  should 
die  before  your  expected  arrival  at  midnight.  But  he  said  he  left  that  mat 
ter  and  every  other  to  GOD'S  disposal.  As  I  was  leaving  him,  he  said,  '  Call 
again  to-day,'  which  I  promised  to  do  in  the  evening.  He  told  me  he  felt  a 
happy  persuasion  that  when  he  passed*  from  this  miserable  world  and  that 
enfeebled  body,  he  should  enter  upon  '  the  inheritance  incorruptible,  unde- 
filed,  and  that  fadeth  not  away.'  He  asked :  '  Do  you  observe  how  these 
words  labor  to  convey  the  idea  of  Heaven's  blessedness  to  our  feeble  minds? 
*  The  inheritance  incorruptible  /'  Beautiful  thought!  *  Undejiled' — more 
beautiful  still !  «  That  fadeth  not  away'  — most  beautiful  of  all !  I  think  I 
understand  something  of  the  peace  and  glory  these  redoubled  words  were 
designed  to  express.'  And  then,  raising  his  wasted  hand,  with  great  em 
phasis  he  said,  'I  shall  soon  know  all  about  it,  I  trust!' 

'In  the  evening,  about  seven  o'clock,  I  received  a  message  from  him  ta 
come  immediately  to  him.  I  was  there  by  eight.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
that  he  had  rallied  so  much.  There  was  a  strength  I  had  not  seen  before ; 
and  his  fine  open  features  were  lighted  up  with  unusual  brilliancy.  In  every 
way  he  seemed  better;  and  I  flattered  myself  that  he  would  live  to  see  you, 
and  even  hold  out  for  a  day  or  two  more.  I  had  much  charming  conversa 
tion  with  him  about  his  state  of  feeling,  his  views  of  himself  as  a  sinner, 
and  of  GOD,  and  of  JESUS  CHRIST  as  a  precious  Saviour,  and  of  heaven,  etc. 
He  then  handed  me  a  prayer-book,  adding,  'That  was  my  ANNE'S,'  mean 
ing  his  wife's.  'Now  read  me  the  office  for  the  sick  in  this  book.  I  want 
the  whole  of  it.  I  have  read  it  myself  over  and  over,  since  you  pointed  it 
out  to  me,  and  it  is  delightful.'  He  then  repeated  the  sentence,  '  I  know- 
that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand  in  the  latter  day  upon  the 
earth,'  and  asked  if  that  was  not  a  part  of  it.  I  told  him  that  that  belonged 
to  the  burial  service.  '  Then,'  said  he,  *  it  is  quite  suitable  for  me,  for  it  will 
soon  be  read  by  you  over  my  grave.'  I  sat  by  his  bed,  and  found  the  place. 


WILLIS    GAYLORD    CLARK.  13 

Waiting  in  silence  to  receive  his  signal  to  begin,  I  thought  he  was  engaged 
in  secret  prayer,  and  was  unwilling  to  interrupt  him.  But  he  remained  si 
lent  so  long,  seeming  to  take  no  notice  of  me,  that  I  spoke  to  him.  1  found 
that  his  mind  was  wandering,  and  that  speech  had  failed.  He  muttered  in 
distinctly  only.  From  that  moment,  he  sank  gradually  away.  His  ema 
ciated  limbs  were  retracted  and  cold  ;  his  pulse  failed ;  the  shadow  of  death 
gathered  fast  and  dark  upon  his  countenance ;.  his  respiration  became  feebler 
and  feebler ;  and  at  last,  at  precisely  five  minutes  past  ten,  he  died.  So  im 
perceptibly  and  gently  did  his  happy  spirit  flee  away,  that  it  was  some  time 
before  we  could  ascertain  that  he  had  gone.  I  never  saw  a  gentler  death. 
There  was  no  pain,  no  distress,  no  shuddering,  no  violent  disruption  of  the 
ties  of  life.  Both  as  to  the  mind's  peace  and  the  body's  composure,  it  was 
a  beautiful  instance  of  evBavavia.  The  change  which  indicated  the  approach 
of  his  last  moment,  took  place  about  half  an  hour  only  before  he  died. 
Such,  my  dear  Sir,  are  all  the  chief  particulars  I  can  remember,  and  which 
I  have  thought  you  would  desire  to  know.' 

A  FEW  summary  'Reflections'  upon  the  character  of  the  lamented  de 
ceased  succeed,  which  although  intended,  as  was  the  foregoing,  only  for  a 
brother's  eye,  we  cannot  resist  the  desire  to  cite  in  this  connexion  : 

4  HE  was,  so  far  as  his  character  revealed  itself  to  me,  a  man  of  a  most 
noble,  frank,  and  generous  nature.  He  was  as  humble  as  a  little  child.  He 
exhibited  throughout  most  remarkable  patience.  He  never  complained. 
But  once,  while  I  was  on  bended  knees,  praying  with  him  for  patience  to  be 
given  him,  and  acknowledging  that  all  he  had  suffered  was  for  the  best,  he 
clasped  his  hands  together,  and  exclaimed,  'Yes!  right,  right  — all  right!* 
•  •  •  He  was  one  of  the  most  affectionate-hearted  men  I  ever  saw.  Every 
moment  I  spent  with  him,  he  was  doing  or  saying  something  to  express  to  me 
his  attachment.  He  would  take  my  hand,  or  put  his  arm  around  my  neck, 
or  say  something  tender,  to  tell  me  that  he  loved  me.  He  showed  the  same 
kind  feeling  to  his  attendants,  his  faithful  nurse,  REBECCA,  and  to  the  hum 
blest  of  the  servants.  •  •  •  He  was  of  course,  with  such  a  heart,  grateful 
for  the  smallest  attentions.  He  received  the  most  trifling  office  with  thanks. 
I  observed  this  most  remarkably  on  the  evening  of  his  death.  I  had  taken 
my  son  with  me,  that  he  might  sit  up  with  him  on  Saturday  night,  if  occa 
sion  should  require.  When  I  mentioned  that  the  youth  was  in  the  room,  he 
called  for  him ;  welcomed  him  most  kindly,  thanked  him  over  and  over  for 
his  friendly  intentions ;  and  in  fact,  broke  out  into  the  warmest  expressions  of 
gratitude  for  what  his  sensitive  and  generous  heart  took  to  be  a  high  act  of 
favor.  All  this  was  within  an  hour  and  a  half  of  his  death.  •  •  •  Finally, 
I  believe  he  was  a  truly  religious  man.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  was  fully 
prepared  for  his  end;  and  that  through  the  sacrifice  of  the  cross,  and  the 
Saviour  who  died  there  for  sinners,  he  was  pardoned  and  accepted.  He  has 
gone,  I  feel  persuaded,  to  the  abodes  of  peace,  where  the  souls  of  those  who 
sleep  in  the  LORD  JESUS  enjoy  perpetual  felicity  and  rest.' 


14  MEMOIR    OF 

SURELY  all  who  peruse  the  foregoing  affecting  record,  may  exclaim  witb 
the  poet  whom  we  lament : 

'  IT  were  not  sad  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold — 
To  feel  those  longings  to  depart, 

That  cheered  the  saints  of  old ; 
To  clasp  the  faith  which  looks  on  high, 
Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye, 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 

It  were  not  lonely,  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed, 
Till  the  free  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-winged  seraphs  led ; 
Where  glories  earth  may  never  know, 
O'er  '  many  mansions'  lingering,  glow, 

In  peerless  lustre  shed ; 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar 
Where  sin  and  grief  can  sting  no  more  ." 

One  of  the  Philadelphia  journals,  in  announcing  his  demise  observes  r 
4  Mr.  CLARK  was  a  scholar,  a  poet,  and  a  gentleman.  « None  knew  him  but 
to  love  him.'  His  health  had  for  a  long  time  been  failing.  The  death  of 
his  accomplished  and  lovely  wife,  a  few  years  ago,  upon  whom  he  doated 
with  a  passionate  and  rapturous  fondness,  had  shaken  his  constitution,  and 
eaten  his  strength.  None  but  'intimate  friends  knew  the  influence  of  that 
sad  affliction  upon  his  physical  frame.  To  the  last  his  heart  yearned  over 
the  dust  of  that  lovely  woman.  In  his  death-chamber,  her  portrait  stood 
always  before  him  on  his  table,  and  his  loving  eye  turned  to  it  even  in  ex- 
tremest  pain,  as  though  it  were  his  living  and  only  friend.'  This  is  literally 
true.  Beyond  question,  moreover,  the  seeds  of  the  disease  which  finally 
removed  him  from  the  world,  were  «  sown  in  sorrow'  for  the  death  of  the 
cherished  companion  of  his  bosom.  His  letters,  his  gradually-declining 
health,  his  daily  life,  his  published  writings,  all  evince  this.  The  rose  on. 
the  cheek  and  the  canker  at  the  heart  do  not  flourish  at  the  same  time 
The  MS.  of  the  ' Dirge  in  Autumn1  came  to  us  literally  sprinkled  with; 
spreading  tear-drops ;  and  the  familiar  correspondence  of  the  writer  is  re 
plete  with  kindred  emotion.  To  the  last  moment  of  his  life,  he  kept  a  col 
lection  the  letters  of '  his  Anne'  under  his  pillow,  which  he  as  regularly  pe 
rused  every  morning  as  his  Bible  and  prayer-book.  Her  portrait,  draped  in 
black,  crossed  the  angle  of  the  apartment,  above  his  table,  where  it  might 
gaze  ever  upon  him  with  its  4  large,  bright,  spiritual  eyes.'  Never  shall  we 
forget  his  apostrophe  to  that  beautiful  picture,  when  his  '  flesh  and  his  heart 
failed  him,'  and  he  knew  that  he  must  soon  go  hence,  to  be  here  no  more : 
*  Sleep  on,  my  love !'  said  he,  in  the  beautiful  and  touching  words  of  the 
Bishop  of  Chichester's  'Exequy  on  the  Death  of  a  Beloved  Wife,'  and  in  a 
voice  scarcely  audible  through  his  frequent  sobs : 

'  Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed, 
Never  to  be  disquieted : 
My  last '  good  night' !  —  thou  wilt  not  wake 
Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake  : 


WILLIS    GAYLORD    CLARK.  15 

Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness,  must 
Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 
It  so  much  loves  ;  and  fill  the  room 
My  heart  keeps  vacant  in  thy  tomb. 

1  Stay  for  me  there  ;  I  will  not  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale  ; 
And  think  not  much  of  my  delay, 
I  am  already  on  the  way ; 
And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed. 
Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 
And  every  hour  a  step  toward  thee ; 
At  night,  when  I  betake  to  rest, 
Next  morn  I  rise  nearer  my  West 
Of  life,  almost  by  eight  hours'  sail, 
Than  when  Sleep  breathed  his  drowsy  gale.' 

Most  just  the  tribute  we  have  seen  paid  to  the  affection  and  patience  and 
grateful  spirit  of  the  deceased.  To  the  last,  his  heart  was  full-fraught  with 
all  tender  reminiscences  and  associations.  In  the  first  stages  of  his  illness, 
when  as  yet  it  was  scarcely  known  to  affect  his  general  routine  of  life,  he 
thus  replies  to  a  remonstrance  from  the  writer  against  the  growing  infre- 
quency  of  his  familiar  letters :  '  In  these  spring  days,  LEWIS,  all  my  old 
feelings  come  freshly  up,  and  assure  me  that  I  am  unchanged.  I  shall  be 
the  same  always;  so  do  you  be.  'Twinn'd,  both  at  a  birth,'  the  only 
pledges  of  our  parents'  union,  we  should  be  all  the  world  to  each  other : 

1  We  are  but  two  — a  little  band  — 

Be  faithful  till  we  die  ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 
Till  side  by  side  we  lie  !' 

As  he  gradually  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  the  '  childhood  of  the  soulr 
seemed  to  be  renewed  ;  the  intellectual  light  to  burn  brighter  and  brighter, 
and  the  chastened  fancy  to  become  more  vivid  and  refined.  He  was  for  some 
months  aware  that  he  had  not  long  to  live.  *  I  shall  die,'  said  he,  a  few 
weeks  since,  'in  the  leafy  month  of  June;  beautiful  season!'  And  turning 
his  head  to  gaze  upon  the  trees  in  the  adjoining  cemetery-grove,  whose 
heavy  foliage  was  swaying  in  the  summer  wind,  he  murmured  to  himself  the 
touching  lines  of  BRYANT  : 

'  I  know,  I  know  I  shall  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show. 
Nor  will  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow  ; 
But  if  around  my  place  of  sleep 
The  friends  I  love  shall  come  to  weep, 

They  may  not  haste  to  go  : 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Will  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb : 
These  to  their  softened  hearts  will  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been, 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene.' 

How  forcibly  were  the  recollections  of  this  scene  borne  in  upon  the 
mind,  as  the  long  procession,  following  the  friend  for  whom  they  mourned, 
defiled  into  the  gates  of  St.  Peter's,  on  that  brightest  morning  of  the  month 
of  his  heart ;  the  officiating  divine  from  whom  we  have  quoted  chaunting  elo- 


16  MEMOIR,    ETC. 

quently  the  while  the  touching  and  beautiful  service  for  the  dead  !"••'•  But 
he  has  gone!  leaving  behind  him  a  name  to  live,  as  we  trust,  in  the 
heart  of  the  nation.  As  a  moral  poet,  we  know  not  a  line  which  dying  he 
could  have  wished  to  blot.  He  was  an  AMERICAN,  in  all  his  heart,  and  loved 
to  dwell  upon  the  future  destiny  of  his  beloved  country.  He  was  a  sincere, 
unvarying,  unflinching  FRIEND  ;  and  although  in  his  long  career  as  editor 
of  an  influential  daily  journal,  and  in  his  enlarged  intercourse  in  society,  it  were 
not  strange  were  it  otherwise,  yet  it  has  been  truly  remarked  by  one  of  his 
contemporaries — all  of  whom,  let  us  gratefully  add,  have  borne  the  warm 
est  testimony  to  his  genius  and  his  worth — that  'it  may  be  said  Mr.  CLARK 
had  no  enemy,  and  only  encountered  attacks  from  one  or  two  coarse  and 
unworthy  sources,  against  which  no  character,  however  gentle  and  deserving, 
could  have  immunity.'  Another  observes,  that  *  it  was  in  the  character  of 
an  editor  that  he  won  upon  the  feelings  and  affections  of  so  many,  and  enti 
tled  himself  to  the  regard  of  his  brethren  of  the  press,  toward  whom  he  al 
ways  acted  with  courtesy  ;  positive,  when  invited  by  kindred  propriety ; 
negative,  when  he  believed  unkindness  or  inability  to  appreciate  courtesy 
existed.'  So  to  live  among  his  fellow  men  as  did  the  deceased,  and  at  last, 
*  with  heart-felt  confidence  in  GOD,  and  the  sacramental  seal  almost  fresh 
upon  his  brow,  gently  to  fall  asleep  in  JESUS,  looking  with  a  Christian's  hope 
for  a  Christian's  reward,'*  surely  thus  '  to  die  is  gain !'  And  in  view  of 
such  a  hope  and  such  an  end,  well  may  we  who,  left  behind  to  drag  a 
maimed  life,  exclaim  with  the  poet : 

1 0  Death  !  thy  freezing  kiss 
Emancipates  —  the  rest  is  bliss  — 
I  would  I  were  away  !J 

IT  may  not  be  amiss  to  explain,  in  closing,  that  *  Ollapodiana1  is  intended 
to  designate  the  familiar  chat  or  gossip,  of  a  personage  like  Dr.  OLLAPOD 
in  the  play,  upon  all  such  themes  as  may  chance  to  enlist  the  fancy  or  touch 
the  heart.  The  different  chapters,  although  originally  separated  by  inter 
vals  of  a  month,  and  sometimes  by  a  longer  period,  it  is  believed  will  be 
found  to  lose  none  of  their  interest  from  being  presented  in  consecutive  or 
der.  The  great  variety  of  style  and  theme  by  which  they  are  character 
ized  will  save  them  from  any  charge  of  monotony.  As  many  of  the  author's 
best  poems  were  introduced  into  this  series  of  prose  papers,  I  have  not 
thought  it  advisable  to  separate  them  from  their  original  connection.  In 
one  word,  I  have  made  the  best  arrangement  of  the  materials  I  possessed 
which  I  could,  with  the  leisure  left  me  from  the  cares  of  a  never-ending 
still-beginning  literary  avocation;  and  I  leave  the  result  with  the  public, 
anxious  mainly  to  be  acquitted  of  doing  injustice  to  one  whose  ear  is  '  deaf 
forever  to  the  voice  of  praise,'  but  whose  memory  I  would  fain  hope  his 
country  will  not  *  willingly  let  die.' 

LEWIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 

New  York,  April,  1844. 

*  Obituary  in  the  Episcopal {  Banner  of  the  Church.' 


OLLAPODIANA, 


THE 


LITERAEY  EEMAINS, 

ETC.,  ETC. 


OLL  APODIANA. 

NUMBER    ONE. 

March,  1835. 

GOOD  READER,  let  us  have  a  talk  together.  Sit  you  down 
with  benevolent  optics,  and  a  kindly  heart,  and  I  doubt  not  that 
we  shall  pass  an  hour  right  pleasantly,  one  with  another.  Pleas 
antly,  in  part,  but  in  part  it  may  be,  sadly ;  for  you  know  it  is 
with  conversation,  as  with  life  ;  it  taketh  various  colors,  and  is 
changing  evermore.  So  we  will  expect  these  changes,  and  meet 
them  as  they  come.  Sometimes  we  shall  be  in  the  cheerful  vein, 
and  at  others,  in  that  subjunctive  mood  which  conquers  the  jest  on 
the  lip,  and  holds  Humor  in  bonds.  But  for  '  gude  or  ill,'  I 
shall  desire  you  to  sit  with  .me.  In  the  voices  of  Mirth,  there 
may  be  excitement,  but  in  the  tones  of  Mourning  there  is  conso 
lation.  ' 

So  I  think,  dear  reader,  as  I  write  this  last  sentence,  and  tell 
you  melancholy  tidings.  CHARLES  LAMB  is  dead !  Yes,  the 
mild,  the  gentle  Lamb,  is  gathered  at  last,  pure  as  the  innocent, 
simple  object  that  syllables  his  name,  into  the  fold  of  God  !* 
Perfect  Creator  of  rich  conceits  —  charming  Architect  of  Periods, 
whose  delicate  aroma,  like  balm  from  Gilead,  yet  loiters  around 
me  ! — *  how  shall  I  mourn  thee  ?'  Reader,  I  hope  you  knew 
him,  in  that  fond  acquaintance  which  Authorship  establishes  be 
tween  a  writer  and  his  admirers.  What  an  Essayist  was  he ! 
How  shrewd  in  observation — how  discriminative  of  the  burlesque 
— how  quaint,  yet  melodious  in  diction — in  expression,  how 
varied  !  Who  ever  rose  from  his  pages,  without  brighter  thoughts 

*  CHARLES  LAMB,  the  author  of  '  Eliaf  and  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most 
graphic  writers  of  the  present  era,  died  in  London  in  December. 


20  OLLAPODIANA. 

and  softer  feelings  ?  If  any  one,  let  him  distrust  his  heart,  and 
acquire  new  perceptions ;  for  in  my  sense,  't  is  better  he  should 
have  no  perceptions,  than  be  in  the  possession  of  qualities  that 
can  not  enable  him  to  discern  the  merits  of  Lamb  ;  the  contem 
plative  graduate  of  '  Christ's,'  at  Oxford,  who  could  fling  the  lus 
tre  of  his  serene  and  goodly  mind  over  every  object ;  who  trailed 
the  flowery  vines  of  Poetry  along  the  formal  walks  of  Prose, 
runtil  the  scene  brightened  like  a  garden  to  the  vision,  and  the 
air  was  redolent  of  celestial  odors  !  When  will  his  place  be  filled 
again  ?  What  hand  may  renew  the  leaves  of  *  Elia,'  fresher  and 
greener  than  those  of  Spring  ?  What  dainty  finger  will  trace 
that  fair  charactery  of  life,  on  foolscap  or  vellum  more  ?  Alas, 
dear  reader,  I  fear  me,  none.  How  fine  a  scholar,  too,  was  he  ! 
None  of  your  plodding  quoters  of  Greek  and  Latin,  with  senten 
ces  longer  than  the  longest  Alexandrine,  and  a  style  rougher  than 
the  wave  by  Charybdis  ;  but  clear  as  the  sky  of  May,  and  smooth 
as  the  susurrations  of  a  stream  in  Eden.  O  gentle  Lamb  !  My 
heart  could  well  indite,  were  my  harp  strung  deftly  for  so  sad  a 
theme,  a  flood  of  mournful  eulogy  at  thy  departure.  What  could 
'reconcile  me  to  the  truth  that  thou  art  indeed  no  more,  but  the 
sublime  and  most  comfortable  assurance,  that  what  is  loss  to 
those  who  love  thy  memory,  is  but  immortal  gain  to  thee  ! 

Lamb  excelled  as  a  writer,  (though  it  was  not  his  profession,) 
better  than  nine  in  ten,  because  he  made  the  best  sources  of  the 
language  his  study  and  his  enjoyment.  He  walked  with  the  god 
like  spirits  of  old  English  literature,  like  a  compeer  among  his 
fellows ;  he  sat  him  down  beneath  the  royal  and  purple  shadows 
of  their  mighty  mantles,  and  ate  of  the  manna  which  descended 
around.  How  numerous  and  how  worthy  were  his  intellectual 
companions  !  Shakspeare  was  his  bosom  friend ;  and  with  Chau 
cer,  Sidney,  Warwick,  Spenser,  Overbury,  Brown,  and  Walton, 
he  '  strayed  among  the  fields,  hearing  as  it  were  the  voice  of 
GOD.' 

Yet  Lamb  had  his  carping  critics,  and  mayhap  his  delicious 

sentences  were  often  caviare  to  the  million.     But  they  will  live 

and  be  cherished,  when  we  are  no  more.      Every  age  to  come 

.will  possess  a  fitting  audience,  but  not  a  few,  that  shall  wear  him 

pre-eminent  in  their  approval,  and  venerate  his  name. 

I  will  not  consent  to  speak  of  the  degenerated  taste  of  modern 
times,  until  the  comments  on  Shakspeare,  the  passages  of  Elia, 
or  the  pure  nature  of  Elizabeth  Woodville  shall  be  forgotten ; 
and  then,  I  will  lament  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  I  shall 
begin  then  to  think,  that  the  well  of  English  undefiled  has  become 
polluted  into  a  polyglott  cistern  ;  that  its  freshness  has  departed ; 


OLLAPODIANA.  21 

and  that,  for  the  spirits  who  love  it,  it  will  well  no  more,  except 
from  those  rare  and  secluded  fountains,  the  Elder  Libraries, 
tasted  but  seldom,  and  heard  of  by  few. 

Charles  Lamb  had  no  common  mind.  It  was  exquisitely 
gentle,  but  its  simple  delineations  were  ever  true  to  life,  and 
therefore  strong.  His  pen  was  imbued  with  the  humor  of  a 
Cruikshank,  yet  he  was  no  caricaturist,  and  never  distorted. 
Even  amidst  the  cold  and  calculating  details  of  the  India  House, 
his  fancy  was  ever  exuberant :  yet  he  never  outraged  probability 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  bent ;  he  travelled  not  out  of  his  path  for 
humor :  it  dropped  like  running  water  from  his  pen.  In  happy 
words,  and  forms  of  speech,  he  was  lord  of  the  ascendant.  I  do 
confess  myself  his  warm  admirer  ;  and  I  deplore  his  exit,  not  as 
one  who  grieves  without  hope  :  for  though  he  is  lost  to  lands  be 
low  the  sun,  he  has  proceeded  to  set  up  his  everlasting  rest  in  a 
better  country,  where  the  day  does  not  darken,  and  Death  hangs 
no  cloud.  In  all  things  a  lover  of  purity,  he  has  gone  at  last, 
full  of  years  and  ripe  in  wisdom,  where  all  is  pure  —  among  the 
troops  of  shining  ones,  in  the  heavenly  Jerusalem. 

TALKING  of  Jerusalem,  reminds  me  —  odd  coincidence  ! — 
of  Rapelje's  Narrative.  That  handsome  volume,  from  the  pen 
of  a  fellow  townsman,  contains  many  an  instructive  and  pleasant 
page.  But  it  is  the  misfortune  of  the  traveller,  I  think,  that  he 
has  been  too  negligent  in  his  records.  When  he  sojourns  in 
France  or  Italy,  we  are  sure  that  what  he  says  is  the  truth,  even 
to  the  purchase  of  a  night-cap  ;  but  when  he-quotes  the  language, 
we  perceive  at  once,  that  he  gathers  his  orthography  from  his 
ear.  He  speaks  for  example,  of  the  Save  (Sevres)  China  Manu 
factory  near  Paris.  Now,  *  Save  China,'  is  very  well,  as  an  ad 
monitory  phrase  of  household  oeconomy  ;  but  in  any  other  sense, 
especially  when  used  as  a  proper  name,  it  is  at  least  radically 
wrong,  in  everything  but  sound.  In  Rome,  our  author  lodged 
in  Strada-street.  He  may  have  done  so :  but  I  guess  he  mis 
took  the  name.  Strada  is  street  in  Italian,  they  tell  me,  as  also 
is  via ;  and  I  was  forcibly  reminded  by  this  presumptive  error, 
of  the  remark  made  by  an  American  sailor,  in  a  letter  addressed 
to  a  friend,  from  Paris,  during  the  famous  trois  jours,  wherein  he 
describes  a  man  whom  he  '  seen,  with  skase  the  valey  of  a  rag  on 
his  back,  running  down  Rue-street,  and  yelling  *  Vivy  la  Shirt!9  '* 
The  sound  of  a  word,  more  especially  in  a  foreign  lingo,  is  a 
most  delusive  criterion  of  its  orthographical  construction.  The 

*  Vive  la  charte. 


^2  OLLAPODIANA. 

unfortunate  woman  in  Humphrey  Clinker,  made  a  sad  verbal 
faux  pas  in  her  own  tongue,  in  the  description  of  a  night  passed 
in  vexing  and  grieving,  when  she  wrote  that  she  had  been  'a 
vixen  and  griffin  all  along  the  corse  of  the  night.' 

To  return.  It  is  in  the  East  that  our  ancient  townsman  sees 
with  a  clearer  eye,  and  writes  with  simplicity  and  taste.  His 
sketch  of  Jerusalem  is  distinct  and  vivid.  Strange,  mysterious 
city  !  What  a  hold  it  hath  upon  every  imagination !  How 
linked  in,  is  it,  with  recollections  of  the  times  of  youth ;  with 
lessons  from  the  Scriptures,  delivered  by  the  priest  of  our  earliest 
days,  from  the  sweet  Olive  mount  of  childhood  !  Straightway 
as  we  read  of  that  Metropolis  of  Faith,  we  go  back  on  the  post 
ing  wings  of  Reminiscence,  to  the  green  fields  and  fresh  waters 
of  serener  years.  We  hear  the  chimes  of  Sabbath  bells,  the 
voices  of  the  choir,  and  the  pealing  of  that  delicious  organ,  whose 
diapason  was  rapture,  whose  triumphant  harmony  kindled  the 
soul.  Associations  of  Bethlehem  and  merry  Christmas  mingle 
together  ;  and  the  babe  in  the  manger  is  contrasted  with  the 
green-wreathed  churches  and  blessings  of  Home.  A  hallowed 
word,  indeed,  is  Jerusalem.  The  great  temple  of  Solomon,  the 
gate  that  looked  toward  Damascus,  the  Via  Dolorosa,  along 
which  our  Saviour  walked,  to  suffer  a  guiltless  death  —  these, 
with  a  thousand  other  scenes  of  interest,  arise  to  the  mind  at  the 
mere  mention  of  that  devoted  city,  from  whose  mountain-girt  cir 
cumference  were  once  rejected  the  brooding  wings  of  the  Al- 
.  mighty.  How  many  pilgrims  have  gone  there ;  how  many  have 
died  there,  in  the  '  entering  in  of  the  ways  ;'  in  the  billows  of 
Jordan !  How  many  crusaders,  battling  for  the  cross  of  their 
order  ;  franklins,  deserting  the  oaken  halls  of  their  far  eastern 
castles  ;  fair  penitents,  distrusting  themselves  and  relying  on  God ; 
palmers,  with  '  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell  !' 

Good  reader,  in  your  black  letter  researches,  if  haply  you 
have  made  them,  did  you  ever  meet  with  that  right  venerable 
tome,  'The  Informacion  for  Pylgrymes  unto  ye  holy  land,  that 
is  to  wyte,  to  Rome,  and  to  Jherusaleme  ?'  A  pleasing  '  4to.' 
it  is ;  and  was  '  emprynted  at  Londone,  in  the  Flete-strete,  at  the 
signe  of  ye  sonne,  by  Wynkyne  de  Worde,  in  the  yere  of  God, 
m  cccc  and  xxiiij.'  In  those  days,  Europe  used  to  pour  her 
yearly  thousands  into  the  lap  of  Palestine.  How  differently  peo 
ple  travelled  then,  from  the  modern  tourist,  in  the  era  of  Rapelje  ! 
The  author  of  the  'Informacion'  went  from  Venice.  With 
seemly  modesty,  his  departure  is  thus  set  down  :  '  In  the  seven 
and  twenty  day  of  the  moneth  June,  there  passed  fro  Venyse, 
under  sayle  out  of  the  haven  of  Venyse,  at  the  sonne  goinge 


OLLAPO DIANA.  23 

'down,  certayne  pilgrymes  toward  Jherusaleme,  in  a  shyppe  of  a 
merchant  of  Venyse,  y'called  lohn  Moreson.  The  patrone  of 
the  same  shyppe  was  y'called  Luke  mantell.  To  the  nombre  of 
Ix.  and  syxe  pylgrimes  :  every  man  payinge,  some  more  some 
lesse,  as  they  might  accorde  with  the  patrone.'  There  were  no 
packet-cabins  then,  with  fine  wines  and  fixed  prices  !  Every 
tourist  was  obliged  to  provision  himself.  The  *  information'  on 
this  point,  and  the  advice,  must  have  been  very  serviceable  to 
those  who  follow  the  author.  He  says  :  *  Hyre  you  a  cage  for 
halfe  a  dozene  hennes  or  chekyns  to  have  with  you  in  the  shyppe 
or  galey.  For  ye  shal  have  neede  of  hem,  manie  times.  And 
buy  you  halfe  a  bushell  of  mele  sede  at  Venyse  for  them.  Also 
take  a  barrel  with  you  for  a  sege  for  your  chambre  in  the  shyppe ; 
it  is  ful  necessary  if  ye  were  seke,  that  you  come  not  into  the 
ayre.  Also  whan  you  comen  to  haven  townes,  yf  she  shall  tarry 
there  three  days,  go  by  times  to  lande ;  for  then  ye  may  have 
lodginge  before  another :  it  wyl  be  take  up  anone.  And  when 
you  come  to  dyuers  havens,  beware  of  fruytes  that  ye  ete  none 
for  nothynge  ;  for  they  be  not  accordinge  to  our  complexion,  and 
they  gendre  a  bloudie  fluxe.  And  yf  any  englishmanne  catch 
that  there  sekenesse,  it  is  a  greate  mervayle  but  and  he  dye 
thereof.' 

'  The  mountains  stand  yet  round  about  Jerusalem  ;'  and  amid 
the  ravages  of  years  and  the  visits  of  pilgrims,  from  Sir  John 
Maunderville  to  Chateaubriand  and  Rapelje,  the  city  has  kept 
her  Great  Wonders  still.  For  ages,  her  objects  of  holy  curiosity 
have  not  essentially  changed.  *  These,'  says  our  author,  *  ben 
the  pylgrimages  within  the  cytee  of  Iherusaleme.  The  fyrst  is 
before  the  temple  of  ye  sepulchre  dore.  There  is  a  four-square 
stone,  whyte,  whereupon  Chryste  rested  hym  with  his  crosse 
whan  hee  went  toward  the  mount  of  Calvarie,  where  is  indul 
gence  vii  yeeres  and  vii  lentes.  Also  the  howse  of  the  ryche 
man  which  denyed  Lazare  ye  crommes  of  breed.'  How  little 
mutation  has  been  made  by  time,  in  these  grand  characteristics 
of  Jerusalem !  Yet  since  this  pilgrimage  was  written,  what 
changes  have  occurred  among  the  nations  of  the  earth !  The 
cities  of  America  have  arisen,  like  exhalations,  from  the  wilder 
ness  :  revolution  has  followed  revolution :  rivers  of  blood,  and 
*  hecatombs  of  men,'  have  testified  the  march  of  Death ;  yet  lonely, 
simple  Jerusalem,  afar  in  the  East,  surrounded  by  desperate 
hordes  and  gloomy  plains,  with  none  but  moral  attractions,  yet 
lingers  in  her  desolation.  There  the  Roman,  the  Armenian,  and 
the  Greek  Catholics,  fight  bloody  battles  on  the  sacred  mount  of 


24  OLLAPODIANA. 

Calvary,  over  the  multiplied  holes  of  the  cross,*  and  lift  up  the 
voice  of  riot  and  slaughter,  even  in  the  sepulchre  of  Christ. 

There  was  a  kind-heartedness  among  those  ancient  pylgrimes, 
which  is  not  to  be  found  in  our  selfish  days.  If  they  encounter 
ed  any  unpleasant  adventures,  and  they  were  avoidable,  they- 
would  instruct  others  how  to  shun  them.  In  the  matter  of  diet, 
they  used  to  be  particularly  minute ;  and  I  am  strongly  inclined 
to  think,  that  those  old  cosmopolites  used  to  be  right  good  livers. 
They  seemed  to  have  an  innate  hankering  after  *  creature  com 
forts;'  and  whatever  they  found,  at  any  haven,  that -was  good, 
they  speedily  mentioned  the  same  in  their  books,  for  the  especial 
benefit  of  those  who  should  come  after,  as  a  kind  of  advertisement. 

BY  the  way,  while  discoursing  of  advertisements,  I  think  I  may 
say  that  they  form  one  of  the  strong  characteristics  of  our  enter 
prising  people.     Look  into  the  newspapers  ;  how  they  teem  with 
these  tidings  of  life  !     I  love  to  look  them  over.     What  a  vast 
amount  of  interests  they  represent  —  how  many  hopes  and  fears  ! . 
From  *  Tin  plates  and  spelter,'  to  *A  Wife  Wanted,'  they  are 
pleasing  to  read :  and  I  am  glad,  when  I  see  an  avis  that  I  have 
watched  for  some  time  daily,  at  last  disappear.     It  is  a  sign  that- 
the  author  has  had  his  wish  accomplished  ;  has  sold  his  com 
modities,  or  found  what  he  sought. 

There  is  just  about  the  same  difference  between  the  orthogra 
phy  and  grace  of  city  and  country  advertisements,  that  there  is 
between  the  manners  of  town  and  country  people.  Many  of  the 
rural  merchants  expose  their  wares  in  poetry  ;  they  sell  muslins 
or  groceries,  by  long  metre,  and  chant  the  praises  of  wooden 
bowls  and  codfish,  on  the  murmuring  lyre.  Methinks  it  should 
go  hard  with  customers,  if  such  harmonious  notifications  do  not 
usually  take  good  effect  for  their  authors.  Legal  advertisements, 
by  humble  functionaries,  have  not  this  privilege.  They  must  be 
confined  to  the  prose — though  not  to  the  letter — of  law;  for  im 
agination  sometimes  gambols  through  them,  in  a  most  wanton 
quest  of  new  combinations  of  letters.  In  the  course  of  my  re 
searches,  I  have  possessed  myself  of  sundry  notices  in  the  adver 
tising  and  business  line,  two  or  three  of  which  I  subjoin.  That 

*  THE  holes  of  the  three  crosses  on  which  our  SAVIOUR  and  the  two  thieves  were 
crucified,  have  increased  to  between  one  and  two  dozen.  Each  of  the  divided 
threes  are  shown  as  the  true  ones.  During  some  of  the  holy  festivals,  as  we 
learn  from  modern  travellers,  the  contests  of  the  different  parties  claiming  the 
true  holes  of  those  trees  of  death,  are  sanguinary  and  ferocious  in  the  extreme. 
Several  combatants  have  died  in  these  bitter  broils  on  the  very  spot  where  a  Gor> . 
expired,  to  give  peace  to  men. 


OLLAPODIANA.  25 

which  immediately  followeth,  was  not  long  since  promulgated  in 
a  sister  State.     It  is  an 

*  ADWERTISEMENT. 

*  To  be  sold  by  public  vandue,  upon  Saderdey  the  23th  day  of  November 

next,  at  the  house  of  Eva  T n,  wedo  deseesct  in  Newmanstown,  all 

sutch  personabel  property  of  the  said  wedo  in  above  menchent  to  wit — one 
good  milcks  cow  and  hey  by  the  hundred  2  ten  pleet  stoves  with  pips  one 
weel  barow  one  close  covert  and  kitchien  tresser  tebells  and  3  cheers,  tups 
and  barrils  one  larg  cauper  kittil  and  iron  potts  3  beds  and  bedstets  3  cheests 
and  a  large  quantate  of  flax  and  linnen  stuff  and  all  kinds  of  other  hous  and 
kitchein  furniturs  to  tichues  to  menchen  the  vandue  to  begin  at  10  of  the 
clock  of  the  forenon.     Resonabel  greted  will  be  give  and  the  conddition 
maid  noen  on  the  day  of  sail  by  S.  B. ,  Administrator.' 

There  is  no  question  at  all,  that  the  officer  who  penned  the 
foregoing  instrument  felt  the  full  force  of  his  station  when  he  com 
mitted  it  to  paper.  He  luxuriated  in  the  mighty  authority  re 
posed  in  him  by  the  law  ;  and  looked  forward,  no  doubt,  with 
sublime  anticipations  to  the  time  when  he  should  expose  to  the 
highest  bidder  *  the  parsonabel  property  of  the  wedo  deseesct,' 
and  receive  his  perquisites  therefor.  He  had  no  notion,  I  will  be 
sworn,  that  he  was  writing  himself  down  an  Ass,  as  well  as  an 
Administrator.  The  effusions  of  such  a  linguist  are  exceedingly 
edifying  to  read.  They  remind  me  of  a  noted  personage  in  one 
of  our  large  cities,  who  has  amassed  a  splendid  fortune,  by  the 
manufacture  of  certain  medicines  of  doubtful  utility.  Having 
neglected  his  education,  and  being  often  thrown  into  society  above 
his  sphere,  he  is  as  often  the  butt  of  many  polished  persons,  who 
love  to  bore  him  with  spurious  learning,  and  who  frequently  re 
sort  to  the  magnificent  mansion  where  he  dwells  in  dismal  and 
uncongenial  gentility.  *  Sir,'  said  one  of  these  wags  to  him  not 
long  ago,  'your  medicinal  discoveries  are  invaluable — immortal: 
they  stamp  you  as  the  benefactor  of  your  race  ;  and  it  will  yet  be 
said  of  you,  as  HOMER  said  of  Oliver  Cromwell :  l  Frigidi  zoni, 
hoc  belloni,  lapsus  linguae  /' ' 

*  No  doubt  of  it !'  said  the  flattered  individual ;  '  and  I  thank 
you  for  the  compliment.     Yet  still  for  all,  notwithstanding  what 
you  say,  my  honors  is  very  small,  and  my  enemies  is  very  nu 
merous  :  numerouser,  a  great  sight,  than  they  was  when  I  wa'nt 
so  well  for  to  do.     It  was  only  the  other  day,  that  I  got  a  letter, 
threatening  egregiously  for  to  burn  down  my  consarn  by  means 
of  a  conflagration,  if  I  didn't  persist  from  uttering  them  medi 
cines.' 

*  Was  the  letter  anonymous  ?' 

1  Not  it ;  and  there,  you  see,  I  had  the  author  on  the  hip.  He 
dassent  prescribe  a  syonymous  communication  to  me,  and  so 


26  OLLAPODIANA. 

with  unparalleled  insurance  he  subscribed  to  his  epistle  the  sig 
nature  of  *  A.  B.  C.'  It  is  well  known,  them  letters  is,  to  most 
people ;  and  I  shall  bring  the  author  into  a  court,  before  the 
month  is  out,  on  a  plea  of  sash'-a-rarrow  /' 

BUSINESS,  like  Misfortune,  makes  one  acquainted  with  strange 
matters.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  bill,  written  by  a  very  choice 
Italian,  in  language  which  he  fain  supposed  to  have  been  the 
quintessence  of  good  English.  It  was  tendered  to  an  esteemed 
citizen,  well  known  for  his  taste.  Such  a  document  is  worth 
four  dollars,  without  any  additional  value  received.  I  offer  the 
original,  and  a  translation,  which  the  author  little  thought  it 
needed : 

MR.  HUON  SQWAR, 

To  JULIAN  G R,  Dr. 

Busto  Vaccenton,  -        -        r.  :•,-<"»  -        -        $2  00 

Busto  Guispier,  2  00 

I  think  it  would  puzzle  any  one  to  ascertain  the  *  intent  of  this 
bill,'  without  much  pondering  and  reflection.  It  would  be  laid 
on  the  table,  in  despair,  by  nine  persons  in  ten.  But  when 
touched  by  the  key  of  cogitation,  its  latent  meanings  flash  forth 
to  day.  Here  is  the  literal  rendering : 

MR.  HONE,  ESQ. 

To  JULIAN  G R,  Dr. 

Bust  of  Washington,         -        -         -         -         -         -         $2  00 

Bust  of  Shakspeare,  -         -        -  -       ,-^-        2  00 

After  such  a  document,  I  might  best  close.  But  I  have  one 
other  notice  from  the  interior,  (the  autographs  of  all  are  extant,) 
which  I  admire  no  less  for  its  orthography,  than  for  its  grammar 
and  punctuation : 

*  NOTICE 

'  OF  the  supscriber  hoses  wos  misen  august  the  15  1834  Lost  of  a  span 
of  hoses  straid  or  stole  out  of  the  comons  at  liverpool  a  small  black  mayor 
switch  tale  nine  yeres  old  a  small  bay  maire  too  white  feet  behine  and  a  short 
taile  and  a  bout  eight  teen  yeres  old  five  dolars  reward  on  them  the  oner  of 
them  hoses  lives  in  townd  of  clay.  D.  R D.' 

'  Farther  than  these,  nothing  need  be  said.  They  are  exhibi 
tions  of  business  talent,  much  to  be  applauded,  but  which,  at  the 
same  time,  might  be  materially  enhanced  by  the  benefits  of  edu 
cation.  Howbeit,  the  schoolmaster  is  abroad :  and  the  rising 
generation  will  embrace  few  who  cannot  understand  the  falsity  of 
the  dolt's  premises  in  Shakspeare,  who  contends  that  *  reading 
and  writing  come  by  nature.' 


OLLAPODIANA.  27 


NUMBEE    TWO. 

May,  1835. 

WELL,  Spring  is  coming  at  last,  with  smiles  such  as  she  used 
to  wear  in  my  childhood,  when  she  stepped  over  the  glowing 
mountains,  with  light  and  song  in  her  train.  The  feelings  of 
better  years  are  kindling  within  me,  as  I  look  from  my  window 
over  the  blossoming  gardens  of  the  city,  regale  my  nostrils  with 
the  inhalation  of  the  air  from  fresh  waters,  and  taste  the  fragrance 
which  sweeps  over  the  town  from  the  flowering  trees  in  yonder 
'fashionable  square.'  If  there  is  any  positive  enjoyment  on 
earth,  one  gets  an  inkling  of  it,  on  a  spring  day,  when  his  heart 
is  not  worn,  and  *  his  bosom  is  young.'  It  is  a  blessed  time  ; 
and  he  who  feels  it  has  a  right  to  say  so,  even  at  the  expense  of 
being  called  a  proser.  I  love  to  sit,  as  I  do  now,  by  my  case 
ment,  with  the  gale  melting  all  over  my  forehead,  (like  an  invisi 
ble  touch  of  benediction  from  some  spirit-hand,)  and  mark  the 
rosy  clouds  move  along  the  west,  as  the  hum  of  the  city  dies  upon 
the  ear,  and  the  aerial  currents  of  evening  are  taking  their  course 
over  the  vast  inland  from  the  sea.  I  feel,  at  such  moments,  that 
I  have  an  indestructible  soul ;  that  the  GOD  whose  fingers  lifted 
the  mountains  to  their  places,  and  set  the  sun  in  heaven,  likewise 
lights  the  human  spirit  from  the  exhaustless  fountain  of  His  pow 
er.  I  muse  upon  the  littleness  of  man,  and  the  greatness  of  his 
CREATOR,  until  the  thought  exalts  my  contemplations  aloft,  and  I 
am  lost  in  wonder. 

There  is  nothing  so  graceful  as  a  cloud.  It  is  the  richest  thing 
in  nature,  except  a  wave  in  its  dissolution.  How  beautifully  its 
painted  sides  flaunt  along  the  west !  If  you  would  see  clouds, 
you  must  see  them  in  the  West.  I  have  watched  those  that  were 
engendered  by  the  sprays  of  Niagara,  and  the  winds  of  Ontario, 
floating  eastwardly  from  the  Occident,  until  every  fold  was  bapti 
zed  in  molten  ruby,  amber,  and  vermillion ;  and  as  the  vast  cur 
tain  rolled  upward  above  the  mountains,  leaving  only  a  few  thin 
bars  of  crimson  across  a  sky  of  the  tenderest  violet,  I  have  re 
peated  those  beautiful  lines  of  Gliick : 

M ethinks  it  were  no  pain  to  die, 
On  such  an  eve,  when  such  a  sky 

O'ercanopies  the  West ; 
To  gaze  my  fill  on  yon  calm  deep, 
And  like  an  infant,  sink  to  sleep 

On  earth,  my  mother's  breast. 


28  OLLAPODIANA. 

There's  peace  and  welcome  in  yon  sea 
Of  endless  blue  tranquility  — 

Those  clouds  are  living  things  ; 
I  trace  their  veins  of  liquid  gold, 
I  see  them  solemnly  unfold 

Their  soft  and  fleecy  wings. 

Clouds  are  like  flowers,  in  their  fading  and  passing  away. 
We  lose  them  with  regret.  Thoughts  of  our  last  hour  come 
upon  us,  as  we  watch  them  die,  and  we  almost  wish  to  die  with 
them :  to  say 

Come  now,  oh,  Death  !  thy  freezing  kiss 

Emancipates  ;  the  rest  is  bliss — 
I  would  I  were  away! 

I  am  led,  in  looking  at  clouds,  to  think  of  the  past,  and  the 
mysterious  awe  with  which  they  were  regarded  in  the  olden  time. 
In  the  days  of  Tacitus,  when  the  Roman  armies  approached  a 
town  to  besiege  it,  and  the  shadows  of  clouds  lay  upon  it,  they 
would  postpone  their  warfare  until  the  sun-light  was  there.  I 
think  of  those  old  ballads,  where  desolate  ladies  are  represented 
in  their  castles,  watching  the  clouds  as  they  sailed  up  the  sky 
from  France  into  England,  envying  their  elevation  and  scope  of 
view,  and  building  a  thousand  dreams,  as  fantastic  as  they. 

MENTIONING  the  past,  causes  me  to  revert  to  Charles  Lamb* 
In  a  former  number  I  spoke  warmly  in  his  praise,  but  I  gave  no 
taste  of  his  quality.  From  the  past,  he  cannot  be  dissociated. 
It  was  a  realm  in  which  he  lived.  There  grew  the  vines  and  fig 
trees  under  which  he  sate  him  down,  not  in  '  sullenness  and 
gloom,'  but  with  the  light  of  an  exuberant  fancy  ever  kindling  at 
his  heart.  Believing  that  he  was  ihe  writer  on  whom  the  mantle 
of  Shakspeare  did  the  most  manifestly  descend,  I  am  bound  to 
*  give  a  reason  for  the  faith  that  is  in  me.'  This  I  shall  do,  by 
quoting  a  few  passages  from  his  works.  John  Woodvil,  a  trage 
dy  from  his  pen,  affords  a  copious  supply  of  Shaksperian  thought, 
and  fully  justifies  the  remark  of  Hunt,  that  *  Lamb,  and  he  alone, 
was  worthy  to  have  heard,  by  the  lips  of  the  Bard  of  Avon,  the 
recital  of  a  scene  in  any  one  of  his  immortal  plays,  hot  from  the 
brain.'  I  must  of  course  be  brief  in  my  quotations  ;  but  a  few 
will  suffice.  John  Woodvil  is  beloved  by  Margaret  Woodvil, 
an  orphan  ward  of  his  father,  Sir  Walter.  He  becomes  cold 
and  distant  to  her,  and  she  deserts  Woodvil  Hall,  after  addres 
sing  him  a  kind,  womanly  letter.  The  following  are  his  reflec 
tions  on  its  perusal : 

Gone !  gone,  my  girl  ?     So  hasty,  Margaret, 
And  never  a  kiss  at  parting  ?     Shallow  loves, 


OLLAPODIANA.  29 

And  likings  of  a  ten-day's  growth,  use  courtesies, 

And  show  red  eyes  at  parting.     Who  bids  '  farewell' 

In  the  same  tone  he  cries  'GoD  speed  you,  sir?' 

Or  tells  of  joyful  victories  at  sea, 

Where  he  hath  ventures,  does  not  rather  muffle 

His  organs  to  emit  a  leaden  sound, 

To  suit  the  melancholy  dull  *  farewell' 

Which  they  in  Heaven  not  use? 

So  peevish,  Margaret! 

But  'tis  the  common  error  of  your  sex, 

When  our  idolatry  slackens  or  grows  less, 

(As  who  of  woman  born,  can  keep  his  faculty 

Forever  strained  to  the  pitch  ?  or  can  at  pleasure, 

Make  it  renewable,  as  some  appetites  are, 

As  namely,  hunger,  thirst?)  this  being  the  case, 

They  tax  us  with  neglect,  and  love  grown  cold, 

Coin  plainings  of  the  perfidy  of  men, 

Which  into  maxims  pass,  and  apophthegms, 

To  be  retailed  in  ballads. 

By  the  way,  the  word  apophthegm  reminds  me  of  the  numer 
ous  sayings  current  in  this  country,  that  are  utterly  unsusceptible 
of  meaning  or  explanation.  Thus,  when  a  person  is  eccentric, 
he  is  pronounced  '  as  odd  as  Dick's  hat  band.'  The  origin  of 
this  native  apophthegm  is  buried  in  obscurity.  In  vain  does 
curiosity  inquire  who  was  the  mysterious  Richard,  with  taste 
unique,  and  hat-band  odd  ?  Was  it  Richard  the  III.  ?  or  Coeur 
de  Lion  ?  Probably  not  the  former.  The  only  queer  things 
about  that  monarch,  were  his  misshapen  back,  and  his  knee-band ; 
an  article  which  his  proud  representatives  of  the  stage  wear  only 
on  one  leg,  a  custom  certainly  odd,  because,  according  to  the 
antique  rule,  '  One  is  odd,  and  two  are  even.'  Most  men  have 
but  one  hat-band.  It  is  considered  sufficient — and  no  man  has 
two  :  if  he  had,  it  would  be  odd  indeed.  A  mass  of  reasoning 
on  this  subject  presses  itself  at  present  upon  my  mind ;  but  I  pass 
to  other  sayings.  When  one  is  good  humored,  it  is  apt  to  be 
remarked  that  *  He  is  as  smiling  as  a  basket  of  chips.'  Now 
reader,  is  there  anything  so  very  humorous  in  a  basket  of  chips  ? 
Does  it  wear  a  smile  ?  I  never  could  perceive  that  it  did.  A 
basket  of  this  sort  is  as  much  devoid  of  expression,  as  the  whites 
of  Job's  eggs  were  of  taste.  I  have  gathered  many  a  basket  full 
of  chips  in  the  country,  for  the  gay  mid-winter's  fire  ;  but  really 
they  never  smiled.  There  is  no  lineament  of  pleasure  in  a  basket 
thus  replenished.  The  contents  lend  a  glow  to  the  farmer's  par 
lor,  and  that  is  their  only  smile  ;  a  compulsory  brightness,  which 
consumes  them  in  its  light,  like  *  a  cheerful  look  from  a  breaking 
heart.'  I  take  this  to  be  sound  logic,  but  have  not,  as  yet,  availed 
myself  of  any  archaeological  commentaries  on  the  subject. 


30  OLLAPODIANA. 

When  an  individual,  also,  is  in  a  state  of  extreme  inebriety,  it  is- 
observed  of  him,  that  '  He  is  as  blue  as  a  razor.'  Now  under 
favor  and  correction,  I  would  express  my  belief  that  a  razor  hath 
not  that  cerulean  hue  spoken  of  *  i'  the  adage.'  It  is  of  a  bright 
and  silvery  aspect,  and  the  sheen  thereof  is  entirely  unlike  tha 
sky,  or  any  other  azure  element  or  tint  whatever.  How  the  say 
ing  became  extant,  is  beyond  the  lore  of  the  antiquary.  I  have 
consulted  several  grave  old  gentlemen  on  the  subject,  and  they 
all  tell  me  that  the  saying  is  only  valuable  from  its  exceeding 
longevity.  They  have  heard  it,  they  say,  from  the  lips  of  their 
great  grandfathers,  but  comprehend  not  its  fitness  or  sense.  Age 
is  its  protection,  and  it  continues  to  be  received  as  a  good  phrase, 
merely  because  the  memory  of  man  runneth  not  to  the  contrary 
of  its  acceptance. 

But  to  return  to  Lamb.  In  a  dialogue  in  Sherwood  Forest, 
between  Margaret  Woodvil,  and  Simon  the  brother  of  John,  the 
following  beautiful  passage  occurs  : 

Margaret.     What  sports  do  you  use  i'  the  forest  ? 

Simon.     Not  many  ;  some  few ;  as  thus : 
To  see  the  sun  to  bed,  and  to  arise, 
Like  some  hot  amourist,  with  glowing  eyes, 
Bursting  the  lazy  bonds  of  sleep  that  bound  him, 
With  all  his  fires  and  travelling  glories  round  him. 
Sometimes,  the  moon  on  soft  night  clouds  to  rest, 
Like  Beauty,  nestling  in  a  young  man's  breast, 
And  all  the  winking  stars,  her  handmaids,  keep 
Admiring  silence  while  those  lovers  sleep ; 
Sometimes,  outstretcht  hi  very  idleness, 
Naught  doing,  saying  little,  thinking  less, 
To  view  the  leaves,  their  dancers  upon  air, 
Go  eddying  round :  and  small  birds,  how  they  fare, 
When  mother  Autumn  fills  their  beaks  with  corn, 
Filcht  from  the  careless  Almathea's  horn. 

How  completely  is  the  subjoined  colloquy  drenched  with  the 
spirit  of  Shakspeare : 

Lovel.  I  marvel  that  the  poets,  who  of  all  men,  methinks,  should  possess 
the  hottest  livers,  and  most  empyreal  fancies,  should  affect  to  see  such 
virtues  in  cold  water. 

John  Woodvil.  Because  your  poet  hath  an  internal  wine  richer  than  lip- 
para  or  canaries,  yet  uncrushed  from  any  grapes  of  earth,  unpressed  in 
mortal  wine-presses. 

Lovel.     What  may  be  the  name  of  this  wine  ? 

John.  It  hath  as  many  names  as  qualities.  It  is  denominated  indiffer 
ently,  wit,  conceit,  invention,  inspiration ;  but  its  most  royal  and  comprehensive 
name  is  fancy. 

Lovel.     And  where  keeps  he  this  sovereign  liquor  ? 

John.  Its  cellars  are  in  the  brain,  whence  your  true  poet  deriveth  intox 
ication  at  will ;  while  his  animal  spirits,  catching  a  pride  from  the  quality 


OLLAPODIANA.  31 

and  neighborhood  of  their  noble  relative,  the  brain,  refuse  to  be  sustained 
by  wines  and  fermentations  of  earth. 

Equally  Shaksperian  is  the  folio  wing  fancy  portrait  of  an  honest, 
confidential  friend  : 

This  Lovel  here's  of  a  tough  honesty, 

Would  put  the  rack  to  the  proof.     He  is  not  of  that  sort 

Which  haunt  my  house,  snorting  the  liquors, 

And  when  their  wisdoms  are  afloat  with  wine, 

Spend  vows  as  fast  as  vapors,  which  go  off, 

Even  with  the  fumes,  their  fathers.     He  is  one, 

Whose  sober  morning  actions 

Shame  not  his  o'er  night's  promises; 

Why  this  is  he,  whom  the  dark-Wisdomed  Fate 

Might  trust  her  counsels  of  predestination  with, 

And  the  world  be  no  loser. 

No  one,  it  seems  to  me,  of  all  the  race  of  modern  writers,  has 
been  so  completely  successful  as  Lamb,  in  the  power  of  imbuing 
a  composition  with  the  true  style  and  spirit  of  ancient  English. 
Upon  his  ear  alone,  would  seem  to  have  melted  the  sweet  and 
majestic  harmonies  of  the  olden  time  ;  and,  from  a  skill  acquired 
by  familiarity  with  that  golden  age  of  his  native  tongue,  he  touched 
his  pen,  to  awaken  in  every  reader  a  glow  of  enthusiasm. 

TALKING  of  enthusiasm,  leads  me  to  say,  that  of  all  places 
wherein  one  can  catch  a  glow  of  sacred  transport,  commend  me 
to  a  Methodist  meeting-house.  I  am  no  bigoted  religionist.  I 
have  a  feeling  of  deference  and  respect  for  every  sect  that  wor 
ships  GOD  ;  and  about  none  particularly,  have  I  either  prejudice 
or  predilection.  But  I  must  allow  that  in  no  convocations,  save 
those  of  that  church,  did  I  ever  hear  so  much  to  move  my  sensi 
bility  ;  to  quicken,  as  by  a  sudden  shock,  the  pulses  of  the  heart, 
and  to  rouse  the  affections  by  a  rapid  and  irresistible  pathos. 
Often,  from  pure  volition,  do  I  wander  away  from  the  more  flash 
ing  streets  of  the  metropolis,  into  some  of  those  quiet  haunts 
whose  retirement  seems  to  denote  the  absence  of  society  and  the 
world.  I  enter  the  humble  porch,  and  with  a  feeling  of  reveren 
tial  simplicity,  I  sit  me  down.  The  pulpit  is  occupied  by  two 
or  three  speakers.  One  is  engaged  in  exhortation.  With  justi 
fiable  tact,  he  has  been  selected  as  the  first,  in  order  to  give  him 
*  fair  play,'  as  he  is  evidently  the  weakest  of  the  clerical  trio.  I 
perceive  in  him  nothing  extraordinary.  He  doles  forth  a  sermon, 
full  of  common-places,  and 

'  in  that  nasal  twang 

Heard  in  conventicles :' 

but  his  brevity  is  studied,   and  the  clerical  foil  takes  his  seat, 
while  the  brighter  gem,  whose  eloquence  he  has  set  off  in  antici- 


32  OLLAPODIANA. 

nation,  arises.  He  is  young,  and  handsome.  The  disposition 
of  his  dress  and  contour  betokens  the  presence  of  one  who  is 
desirous,  primarily,  of  impressing  his  hearers  '  by  that  first  appeal 
which  is  to  the  eye  ;'  and  secondly,  to  inspire  them  with  the  elo 
quent  fires  that  are  slumbering  in  his  brain  and  bosom.  At  first, 
his  voice  is  low  and  indistinct ;  anon,  it  aspires  into  a  mellifluous 
cadence,  until  every  heart  is  moved,  and  every  lip  tremulous 
with  a  sigh.  Such  an  one  I  heard,  not  many  months  ago.  He 
commenced  with  the  text,  '  I  have  been  young,  and  now  I  am 
old ;  yet  have  I  never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed 
begging  bread.'  In  his  pictures  of  youth  and  age,  and  of  the 
sole  consolation,  '  the  one  thing  needful,'  which  should  sustain 
both,  he  broke  forth  into  the  following  sublime  emblem  : 

'  My  friends,  as  I  look  down  from  this  advantageous  eminence, 
upon  the  different  mortal  ages  that  appear  before  me  ;  upon 
cheeks  painted  with  the  rosy  bloom  of  childhood,  and  lips  redo 
lent  with  the  fragrance  of  spring  ;  when  I  contrast  them  with  the 
corrugated  lineaments  and  snow-sprinkled  temples  of  age,  my 
mind  labors  with  a  fearful  comparison.  I  contrast  the  full  veins 
and  fair  moulded  features  of  childhood  with  the  thin  and  shrivel 
led  aspects  of  declining  years  ;  and  I  liken  them  all  to  the  scenes 
which  we  meet  with  on  the  broad  ocean  of  existence.  In  our 
better  days,  we  leave  the  pleasant  land  of  youth  in  a  fairy  barque  ; 
the  sunshine  laughs  upon  the  pennon,  and  trembles  on  the  sail ; 
the  sweet  winds  refresh  our  nostrils  from  the  flowery  shore,  the 
blue  vistas  delight  our  eyes,  the  waves  dance  in  brightness  beneath 
our  keel ;  the  sky  smiles  above  us,  the  sea  around  us,  and  the 
land  behind  us,  as  it  recedes ;  and  before,  a  track  of  golden 
brightness  seems  to  herald  our  way.  Time  wears  on  —  and  the 
shore  fades  to  the  view.  The  barque  and  its  inmates  are  alone 
on  the  ocean.  The  sky  becomes  clouded  ;  the  invisible  winds 
sweep  with  a  hollow  murmur  along  the  deep  ;  the  sun  sinks  like 
a  mass  of  blood  over  the  waters,  which  rise  and  tumble  in  mad 
confusion  through  a  wide  radius  of  storm ;  the  clouds,  like 
gloomy  curtains,  are  lifting  from  afar.  The  sails  are  rent ;  the 
tackle  disparts ;  broken  cordage  streams  and  whistles  to  the  tem 
pest  ;  the  waves  burst  like  molten  mountains  upon  the  half  sub 
merged  and  shuddering  deck  ;  masts  are  rent  in  splinters ;  the 
seaman  is  washed  from  the  wheel.  Cries  of  terror  and  anguish 
mingle  with  the  remorseless  dash  of  billows,  and  the  howling  of 
thunder  and  storm.  The  foundered  boat  sinks  as  she  launches ; 
the  deck  is  breaking.  God  of  mercy  !  Who  shall  appear  for  the 
rescue  ?  Where  fold  the  arms  that  are  mighty  to  save  ?  Men 
and  brethren — aid  is  near  at  hand.  Through  the  rifts  of  the  tern- 


OLLAPODIANA.  33 

pest,  beaming  over  the  tumultuous  waters,  moves  a  pavilion  of 
golden  light.  The  midnight  is  waning ;  gushes  of  radiance 
sprinkle  the  foam ;  a  towering  form  smiles  on  the  eyes  of  the 
despairing  voyagers,  encircled  with  a  halo  of  glory.  It  is  the 
SAVIOUR  of  Man  —  it  is  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant !  It  moves  on 
ward  ;  the  waves  rush  back  on  either  hand ;  and  over  a  track 
of  calm  expanse,  the  Ark  is  borne.  Who  steps  from  its  side, 
and  walks  over  the  deep,  as  if  upon  the  land  ?  It  is  the  great 
Captain  of  our  Salvation  —  the  Mighty  to  Save  ?  He  rescues  the 
drowning  from  death,  the  hopeless  from  gloom.  He  stills  the 
fury  of  the  tempest ;  and  for  the  spirit  of  mourning,  he  gives  the 
song  of  rejoicing  and  the  garments  of  praise.  Ark  of  the  Cove 
nant  !  roll  this  way  !  We  are  sinking  in  the  deep  waters  ;  and 
there  is  none  to  deliver  !  Let  the  prayer  be  offered,  and  it  will 
save  us  all !' 

Such  is  a  faint  sketch  of  the  exhortation  I  have  mentioned. 
In  illustrating  this  point,  the  preacher  said :  'Let  not  this  sketch 
be  deemed  the  dream  of  a  fanciful  mind.  We  are  the  voyagers, 
ours  is  the  danger,  and  GOD  is  the  Power  who  guides  the  Ark  of 
Deliverance.  These  things  are  not  visible  to  the  naked,  mortal 
eye,  but  their  truth  is  the  same.  The  things  which  are  seen  are 
temporal ;  from  them  depend  those  momentous  things  which  are 
unseen  and  eternal.  How  shall  I  illustrate  the  boundless  differ 
ence  between  the  glories  of  the  spiritual  and  temporal  world? 
Some  years  ago,  I  remember,  I  was  in  a  town  in  a  neighboring 
State  when  there  chanced  an  eclipse  of  the  sun.  I  had  for 
gotten  the  anticipated  event,  and  was  reading  in  my  room,  un 
mindful  of  the  pale  and  sickly  twilight  that  had  gradually  stolen 
over  my  page.  A  friend  came  in,  and  said,  *  Brother,  are  you 
aware  that  the  eclipse  is  now  taking  place  ?'  I  answered  no  ;  and 
joining  him,  I  walked  down  into  the  long  broad  street.  It  was 
full  of  people  ;  and  the  houses  of  the  town,  on  all  sides,  were 
covered  with  the  population.  I  took  a  small  fragment  of  smoked 
glass,  and  surveyed  the  sun.  It  was  nearly  obscured  by  the 
other  sphere,  and  by  the  clouds  which,  clad  in  gloomy  light, 
were  sailing  fitfully  by.  After  a  little  while  I  retired  to  my  apart 
ment,  but  for  nearly  an  hour  was  totally  blind.  Now,  my  be 
loved  friends,  that  mighty  orb,  even  when,  as  at  this  present,  it 
sails  in  unclouded  majesty  above  us,  throwing  its  floods  of  light 
upon  the  far-off  mountain,  the  arid  desert,  the  fertile  valley,  or 
the  heaving  main,  that  glorious  orb  is  but  a  faint  spark  at  the  foot 
of  the  Omnipotent — a  dimly-lighted  lamp,  feebly  glimmering  on 
the  outer  verge  of  that  transcendent  world,  whose  glories  are  un 
seen  and  eternal.' 

3 


34  OLLAPODIANA. 

To  appreciate  bursts  of  pulpit  eloquence  like  these,  you  must 
hear  them.  You  must  have  partaken  of  the  excitement  which 
warms  the  speaker,  and  spreads  like  a  sweet  contagion,  if  I  may 
so  speak,  among  his  auditory.  You  must  see  the  faces  of  young 
and  old  lighted  up  with  a  solemn  interest ;  and  when  he  goes  on 
to  depict  the  goodness  of  the  SAVIOUR,  you  should  mark  the  tear 
ful  features  beaming  in  loveliness  from  the  galleries  ;  hear  the  sobs 
of  irrepressible  rapture  which  attest  the  animation  of  the  believ 
ing;  and  anon  your  own  heart  is  so  melted  with  enthusiasm,  that 
when  the  rich,  trembling  tones  of  the  congregation  are  blended  in 
the  hymn,  you  seem  carried  aloft  on  wings  of  extacy,  by  the  in 
fectious  transport  of  the  scene.  I  have  listened  to  the  ad  captan- 
dum  eloquence  of  many  a  l  popular'  divine,  without  emotion, 
and  heard,  indifferently,  the  incontrovertible  propositions  of  many 
a  '  stately  son  of  demonstration ;'  but  when  I  desire  to  be  sub 
dued  and  melted  in  simple  feeling,  I  go  to  a  Methodist  meeting. 
Something  humble  and  holy  is  there  ;  the  distinctions  of  this  life 
are  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  that  which  is  to  come ;  the  music 
rings  in  tender  supplication  at  the  door  of  my  heart ;  and  I  come 
away,  feeling  for  days  like  a  purer  and  a  better  man.  There  be 
many  who  visit  such  places  for  amusement ;  to  mimic  the  prayer 
of  the  righteous,  and  sneer  at  the  stay  of  the  comfortless  and  the 
aged  ;  but  he  who  would  thus  insult  his  GOD,  is  worse  than  a 
reptile.  _____ 

I  HAVE  heard  many  definitions  of  PUNS.  It  has  been  gener 
ally  conceded  that  the  worst  are  the  best.  The  most  far-fetched 
are  certainly  the  most  unexpected,  and  consequently  the  most 
humorous.  What  can  be  better  in  this  way  than  Hood's  des 
cription  of  Ben.  Battle,  in  the  conflict  ? 

1 A  cannon  ball  took  off  his  legs 
And  he  laid  down  his  arms :" 

Or  that  doleful  announcement,  after  his  death,  when 

*  They  went  and  told  the  Sexton, 
And  the  Sexton  toWd  the  bell !' 

Things  like  these  make  one  laugh  every  time  they  are  thought 
of.  They  are  irresistible  to  the  most  ordinary  apprehension. 
Looking  over  my  dear  familiar  Lamb's  works  the  other  day,  I 
encountered  some  comments  on  a  pun,  which,  with  the  example 
offered,  are  so  admirable,  that  I  transcribe  them  entire. 

A  pun  is  not  bound  by  the  laws  which  limit  nicer  wit.  It  is  a 
pistol  let  off  at  the  ear ;  not  a  feather  to  tickle  the  intellect.  It  is 
an  antic  which  does  not  stand  upon  manners,  but  comes  bounding; 


OLLAPODIANA.  35 

into  the  presence,  and  does  not  show  the  less  comic  for  being 
dragged  in  sometimes  by  the  head  and  shoulders.  What  though 
it  limp  a  little,  or  prove  defective  in  one  leg?  All  the  better. 
A  pun  may  easily  be  too  curious  and  artificial.  Who  has  not  at 
one  time  or  other  been  at  a  party  of  professors,  (himself  perhaps, 
an  old  offender  in  that  line,)  where,  after  ringing  a  round  of  the 
most  ingenious  conceits,  every  man  contributing  his  shot,  and 
some  there  the  most  expert  shooters  of  the  day ;  after  making  a 
poor  word  run  the  gauntlet  till  it  is  ready  to  drop  ;  after  hunting 
and  winding  through  all  the  possible  ambages  of  similar  sounds ; 
after  squeezing,  and  hauling,  and  tugging  at  it,  till  the  very  milk 
of  it  will  not  yield  a  drop  further,  suddenly  some  obscure,  un- 
thought-of  fellow  in  a  corner,  who  was  never  'prentice  to  the 
trade,  whom  the  company  for  very  pity  passed  over,  as  we  do  by 
a  known  poor  man  when  a  money-subscription  is  going  round, 
no  one  calling  upon  him  for  his  quota ;  has  all  at  onc^come  out 
with  something  so  whimsical  yet  so  pertinent ;  so  brazen  in  its 
pretensions,  yet  so  impossible  to  be  denied ;  so  exquisitely  good, 
and  so  deplorably  bad,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  has  proved  a 
Robin  Hood's  shot ;  anything  ulterior  to  that  is  despaired  of,  and 
the  party  breaks  up,  unanimously  voting  it  to  be  the  very  worst 
(that  is,  best)  pun  of  the  evening.  This  species  of  wit  is  the  bet 
ter  for  not  being  perfect  in  all  its  parts.  What  it  gains  in  com 
pleteness,  it  loses  in  naturalness.  The  more  exactly  it  satisfies 
the  critical,  the  less  hold  it  has  upon  some  other  faculties.  The 
puns  which  are  most  entertaining  are  those  which  will  least  bear 
an  analysis.  Of  this  kind  is  the  following,  recorded,  with  a  sort 
of  stigma,  in  one  of  Swift's  Miscellanies : 

'  An  Oxford  scholar,  meeting  a  porter  who  was  carrying  a  hare 
through  the  streets,  accosts  him  with  this  extraordinary  question  : 
1  Prithee,  friend,  is  that  your  own  hare,  or  a  wigT 

'  There  is  no  excusing  this,  and  no  resisting  it.  A  man  might 
blur  ten  sides  of  paper  in  attempting  a  defence  of  it  against  a 
critic  who  should  be  laughter-proof.  The  quibble  in  itself  is  not 
considerable.  It  is  only  a  new  turn  given  by  a  little  false  pronun 
ciation,  to  a  very  common,  though  not  very  courteous  inquiry. 
Put  by  one  gentleman  to  another  at  a  dinner-party,  it  would  have 
been  vapid  ;  to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  it  would  have  shown 
much  less  wit  than  rudeness.  We  must  take  in  the  totality  of 
time,  place,  and  person ;  the  pert  look  of  the  inquiring  scholar, 
the  desponding  looks  of  the  puzzled  porter ;  the  one  stopping  at 
leisure,  the  other  hurrying  on  with  his  burden  ;  the  innocent 
though  rather  abrupt  tendency  of  the  first  member  of  the  question, 
with  the  utter  and  inextricable  irrelevancy  of  the  second  5  the 


36  OLLAPODIANA. 

place  —  a  public  street,  not  favorable  to  frivolous  investigations  ; 
the  affrontive  quality  of  the  primitive  inquiry  (the  common  ques 
tion)  invidiously  transferred  to  the  derivative  (the  new  turn  given 
to  it)  in  the  implied  satire ;  namely,  that  few  of  that  tribe  are  ex 
pected  to  eat  of  the  good  things  which  they  carry,  they  being  in 
most  countries  considered  rather  as  the  temporary  trustees  than 
owners  of  such  dainties,  which  the  fellow  was  beginning  to  under 
stand  ;  but  then  the  wig  again  comes  in,  and  he  can  make  nothing 
of  it ;  all  put  together  constitute  a  picture.  Hogarth  could  have 
made  it  intelligible  on  canvass.' 

There  are  some  men  who  speak  in  puns.  Philadelphians, 
since  the  time  of  KNICKERBOCKER,  have  had  the  merit  of  being  the 
most  atrocious  punsters  in  the  union.  But  with  the  exception  of 
a  happy  journalist  or  two,  and  a  few  jurists,  they  have  the  name 
only ;  which,  however,  has  attained  such  an  altitude,  that  they 
sleep  on  jheir  laurels.  Perhaps  it  is  well ;  yet  of  all  miscar 
riages,  an  abortive  pun  is  the  worst.  How  many  witlings  have  I 
seen  bring  forth  one  of  those  pseudo  bon-mots,  and  baptize  it 
with  a  grin,  when  it  was  the  very  quintessence  of  inanity  !  Truly, 
ihey  have  their  reward ;  for  they  are  often  asked  by  their  ac 
quaintances,  when  they  have  finished,  whether  the  time  has  come 
-Jo  laugh! 

I  like  a  play  upon  words  in  other  ways.  Ben.  Jonson  made 
ti  right  good  hit,  when  he  wagered  that  he  could  incorporate  the 
choral  words  di,  do,  dum,  into  a  melancholy  couplet.  Being 
challenged  to  do  so,  he  adventured  as  thus : 

When  Dido  found  that  JEneas  would  not  come, 
She  wept  in  silence,  and  was  Dido  dumb.1 

Chesterfield  made  it  a  rule,  that  in  social  chat,  the  visiter's 
good  sayings  should  be  reserved  for  the  last,  and  that  when  he 
had  uttered  them,  he  should  instantly  take  himself  away.  Be 
lieving  that  I  can  not  add  a  better  thing  than  this  versicle  of 
Ben's,  (built,  no  doubt,  at  some  happy  moment  when  '  his  learned 
sock  was  on',)  I  follow  the  counsel. 


. 


OLLAPODIANA.  37 


NUMBER    THREE. 

June,  1835. 

ANOTHER  month  has  gone  by,  and  bless  us,  reader,  here  am 
I  again,  at  the  same  casement  of  which  I  whilome  made  mention, 
brewing  you  another  chapter  of  various  topics,  *  writen  as  they 
shoulde  comen  into  my  mynde.'  *  The  moneth  June  !'  A  right 
pheasant  month  it  is — leafy,  sunny,  and  sweet.  The  view  from 
ir.\r  window  has  vastly  improved  since  my  last.  The  '  fashion 
able  square'  is  almost  hidden  by  a  cloud  of  splendid  verdure ; 
and  as  I  look  upon  the  undulating  and  breeze-tossed  mass,  I 
think  there  are  few  things  so  fine  as  a  huge  wall  of  '  innumerous 
boughs,'  clothed  in  the  garniture  of  summer,  and  quivering  in 
the  beauty  of  morn  —  so  sparkling,  fresh,  and  rich  to  see ! 

The  air  that  sweeps  from  squares  and  groves,  is  worth  a  for 
tune.  Let  me  breathe  it'  in  health,  and  I  am  happy.  All  truly 
excellent  things  are  those  which  all  can  enjoy :  the  blessed  sun, 
the  air,  the  sight  of  sky  and  cloud,  of  hills  and  waters,  these  are 
for  all.  Munificent  CREATOR  !  What  do  not  thy  creatures  owe 
thee !  I  respire  now  in  an  atmosphere  that  would  befit  Hes- 
peria.  The  breeze  is  balm  : 

'  It  hath  come  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed.' 

So  long  as  I  can  relish  these  blessings,  with  such  exhilarating  en 
joyment,  I  would  love  to  live,  and  live  to  love ;  I  could  cheer 
fully  pass  the  octogenarian  in  my  decline. 

The  midsummer  weighs  me  down.  It  takes  away  my  nerves, 
and  resolves  me  into  a  woman.  I  grow  weak  and  sentimental, 
and  a  kind  of  rascally  melancholy  comes  upon  my  spirit.  Such, 
at  least,  has  been  the  case ;  but  I  think  I  am  yearly  changing  in 
that  regard.  When  June  comes,  also,  I  am  not  so  buoyant  as 
aforetime.  I  can  not  tell  the  reason,  unless  it  be  that  Hope  loses 
lustre  from  her  wings  in  every  solstice  ;  while  Reality  points  with 
his  iron  finger  at  the  index  of  time,  and  tells  me  I  am  becoming 
unmindful  of  beauty  and  untinctured  with  song.  Now  and  then 
I  think  this  is  true,  especially  of  the  brighter  seasons : 

'Alas,  my  heart's  darkness!  I  own  it  is  summer, 
Yet,  'tis  not  the  summer  I  once  used  to  see ; 
Then  I  had  welcomes  for  every  new  comer — 
Now  strangely  the  summer  seems  altered  to  me.' 

So  of  other  matters.  I  used  to  rejoice  in  watching  the  splendid 
coaches  which  flashed  by  my  window,  with  their  luxurious 


38  OLLAPODIANA. 

springs,  and  servants  in  livery,  swinging  with  golden  bands  from 
their  stands  behind ;  and  I  took  much  delight  in  surveying  the 
fair  freight  within  ;  now  they  roll  by  unnoticed.  I  am  in  a  spirit 
land,  mainly ;  a  land  of  dreams  and  reveries — the  realm  and  do 
minion  of  *  Drowsy  head.'  

TALKING  of  drowsiness,  makes  me  think  of  a  feeling  which 
comes  over  the  mind  of  a  man,  after  reading  a  published  article 
from  his  pen,  full  of  errors.  He  sees  fine  periods  and  pet  sen 
tences  inhumanly  butchered ;  he  turns  with  discontent  from  the 
journal  to  which  they  were  sent ;  *  look  on't  again  he  dares  not ;' 
he  perspires  with  rage  ;  and,  fretting  himself  drowsy,  feels  ready 
to  say  with  Otway,  *  Oh  for  a  long,  long  sleep,  and  so  forget  it !' 
Genius  of  Faust !  what  abominations  are  committed  in  thy  name ! 
Hereby  hangs  a  tale. 

The  other  day,  a  little  man  called  to  see  me,  as  the  author  of 
1  Ollapodiana.'  He  was  of  lowly  stature,  bent  in  the  back,  knock- 
kneed,  and  had  hair  on  his  head  of  a  most  grievous  sorrel  hue. 
His  ungainly  too-long  coat  was  of  blackish  fustian,  his  jerkin  of 
snuffy  buff,  and  his  pantaloons  of  blue  cotton,  *  i'  the  autumn  of 
their  life.'  He  had  found  me  out,  he  said,  by  my  style,  and  had 
brought  a  sketch  which  he  desired  I  \vould  smuggle  into  the 
KNICKERBOCKER,  as  he  feared  its  acceptance  otherwise.  So  I 
stand  godfather  for  his  bantling.  It  has,  I  should  think,  been 
hastily  created,  and  its  insertion  here  will  crowd  out  several 
members  and  subsections  of  my  own,  but  I  fancy  it  will  do.  I 
can  sympathize  with  Smith ;  yet  he  is  used  to  reverses,  being  one 
of  the  identical  persons  who  failed  in  receiving  the  prize  offered 
by  the  '  Olympiad  and  Sunburst,'  as  mentioned  recently  in  this 
Magazine.  One  thing  plagued  me.  He  was  determined  to  read 
the  whole  thing  aloud,  so  that  I  could  ascertain  exactly  every 
word,  and  thus  prevent  mistakes  when  I  surveyed  the  proof- 
sheets.  I  sat  like  a  martyr,  while  he  rose,  and  with  a  prelimin 
ary  flourish, 

'  Drew  from  the  deep  Charybdis  of  his  coat 
What  seemed  a  handkerchief,  and  forthwith  blew 
His  vocal  nose.' 

and  then  began : 

'THE    VICTIM    OF   A   PROOF-READER.' 

' '  Foul  murder  hath  been  done— lo !  here's  the  proof!'— Old  Play.' 

c  OH  !  for  the  good  old  times  of  Typography,  when  operatives 
in  the  art  could  render  the  ancients  5  when  Caxton  translated  'Y8 


OLLAPODIANA.  39 

Seyge  of  Troye'  from  the  language  of  Greece !  Would  that, 
in  this  latter  age,  when  Champollion  has  deciphered  the  hiero 
glyphics  of  Egypt;  when  the  spirit  of  inquiry  is  every  where 
abroad ;  some  one  might  be  found,  who  could  continue  to  shel 
ter  from  typical  aggression  a  writer  for  the  press  !  .  j 

*  I  am  the  victim  of  a  proof-reader.  The  blunders  of  others, 
and  not  my  own,  have  placed  me  in  a  state  of  feeling  akin  to 
purgatory.  Ever  since  I  began  to  shave  for  a  beard,  I  have  been 
more  or  less  afflicted  with  the  cacoethes  scribcndi,  and  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  have  not  always  been  unsuccessful  in  my  writings. 
But  my  printed  efforts  have  neither  been  honorable  to  my  genius, 
nor  grateful  to  my  vanity ;  '  on  the  contrary  they  have  been  quite 
the  reverse.'  I  have  had  the  sweetest  poems  turned  into  thrice- 
sodden  stupidity  ;  sentences  in  prose,  on  which  I  doated  in 
manuscript,  have  been  perused  in  a  deep  perspiration,  and  with 
positive  loathing,  in  print.  All  this  has  arisen  from  a  conspiracy 
which  seems  to  have  been  formed  against  me,  by  all  the  typo 
graphical  gentlemen  of  the  country.  It  is  true,  I  write  what 
Mrs.  Malaprop  might  call  an  *  ineligible  hand  ;'  for  to  the  pitiful 
minutiae  of  crossing  t's,  and  dotting  i's,  I  never  could  descend. 
I  have  often  given  directions  to  publishers,  that  if  a  word  was 
otherwise  '  past  finding  out,'  they  should  count  the  marks  ;  but 
the  plan  failed,  as  have  indeed  all  my  plans  for  correct  habits  of 
thought  before  the  public.  If  this  narrative  shall  prove  to  be 
correctly  printed,  it  will  be  the  first  article  from  my  pen  that  has 
ever  met  with  such  an  honor,  and  I  shall  be  proportionably 
pleased. 

'  Like  all  other  mortals,  I  am  penetrable  to  the  arrows  of  Cu 
pid.  My  heart  is  not  encased  with  the  epidermis  of  a  rhinoceros, 
nor  the  bull  hide  of  Ajax ;  consequently  I  am  what  they  call  in 
romances  a  susceptible  person.  When  I  was  nineteen  I  fell  in 
love,  and  as  I  found  prose  too  tame  a  medium,  too  staid  a 
drapery  for  my  thoughts,  what  could  I  do,  but  express  to  my 
fair  one  my  passion  in  song  ?  She  was  a  beautiful  creature,  *  a 
delicious  arrangement  of  flesh  and  blood ;'  a  country  parson's 
daughter,  with  excellent  tastes  and  accomplishments.  She  was 
fond  of  poetry,  and  so  was  I.  This  circumstance  sent  my  fancy 
a  wool-gathering,  for  tropes,  figures,  and  emblems.  Young 
ladies  have  a  passionate  admiration  for  genius,  and  I  determined 
to  show  that  I  was  not  deficient  in  that  particular ;  that  I  belonged 
of  right  to  those  who  merited  the  saying,  *  Poeta  nascitur  nonfit? 
During  the  spring  of  18 —  I  was  attacked  with  a  perfect  incon 
tinence  of  rhyme.  My  ladye-love  was  always  my  theme.  But 
of  all  my  compositions,  none  satisfied  me  save  the  following, 


40  OLLAPODIANA. 

which  I  produced  with  great  limes  labor,  and  studious  care.     I> 
think  poorly  enough  of  it  now  : 

TO  EMILY  B  -  . 

•DEAR  GIRL!  an  angel  sure  thou  art— 

The  muse  of  every  spell 
Which  brings  one  transport  to  my  heart, 
And  bids  my  bosom  swell. 

'And  oh!  carnation  on  thy  cheek 

Its  richest  lustre  lends  ; 
And  thy  blue  eyes  forever  speak 

A  welcome  to  thy  friends. 

Alas  !  if  fate  should  bid  us  part, 

Life  would  be  naught  with  me  ; 
A  load  would  rest  upon  my  heart, 

Without  a  smile  from  thee. 

'Where  shall  I  meet  a  leaf  so  fair 

In  Nature's  open  page  ? 
With  thee  the  beauteous  flower  compare, 
And  e'en  my  grief  assuage? 

'Forgive,  my  love,  this  hasty  lay, 

And  let  its  numbers  be 
Sweet  monitors  that  day  by  day, 
Shall  bid  thee  think  of  me!' 

4  This  production  I  sent  to  the  village  newspaper.  I  waited 
a  long  week,  to  see  it  appear.  Finally,  the  important  Wednes 
day  arrived.  I  hastened  to  the  office,  but  the  affair  was  not  pub 
lished.  I  glanced  with  a  hurried  eye.  over  the  damp  sheet,  and 
found  a  notice  at  last,  commencing  with  three  stars  turned  up 
and  down.  It  read  thus  : 


J  tribute  to  Emily,  by  '  J.  S.'  is  unavoidably  postponed  until  our 

next,  by  a  press  of  advertisements,  for  which  we  are  thankful  —  since  we  do 
that  kind  of  business,  as  likewise  all  sorts  of  job-work,  on  the  most  reason 
able  terms  —  blanks,  cards,  hand-bills,  and  other  legal  documents,  being  exe 
cuted  by  us  at  the  shortest  notice.  Not  to  digress,  however,  we  would  say 
to  '  J.  S.'  let  him  cultivate  his  talent  ;  he  has  tremendous  powers,  but  he 
writes  a  bad  hand.  He  should  make  his  penmanship  like  his  poetry— 
perfect.' 

*  I  had  the  curiosity  to  look  into  the  advertising  columns  to 
see  what  envious  things  of  traffic  had  displaced  my  lines. 
There  were  but  three  advertisements,  a  sheriff's  sale,  a  stray 
cow,  and  a  wife  eloped  from  bed  and  board.  I  read  the  sheriff's 
notice  with  that  deep  interest  which  these  documents  usually  ex 
cite.  It  discoursed  of  lands,  messuages,  and  tenements,  desig 
nated  *  by  a  line,  beginning  at  the  north  west  corner  of  Mr.  Jen- 
kins'  cow-house,  running  thence  north  seventy-five  chains,  four* 


OLLAPODIANA.  41 

teen  links,  thence  east  twenty-nine  chains  eleven  links,  to  a  stake 
and  stones' — and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

*  Yet  the  notice  filled  me  with  exceeding  great  delight.     I  sent 
it  to  Emily :  I  told  her  that  *  J.  S.'  was  myself,  but  begged  her 
not  to  mention  it  to  a  third  person.      She  kept  her  secret  as 
women  usually  do.     In  three  days  it  was  all  over  town,  that  I 
had  a  piece,  '  that  I  had  made  out  of  my  head,'  coming  forth  in 
the  next  week's  newspaper,  addressed  to  Emily  Brinkerhoff. 

I  Never  did  seven  days  roll  more  slowly  round  than  the  week's 
interval  which  followed  the  foregoing  notice,  in  the  publication 
of  the    *  Elucidator  of  Freedom,   and    Tocsin  of  the   People.' 
When  it  did  finally  come  out,  I  sent  Emily  an  affectionate  note, 
with  a  copy  of  the  paper,  assuring  her  that  the  poem  contained 
my  real  sentiments.     I  determined  not  to  read  it  myself  until  I 
visited  her  in  the  evening.     By  great  self-denial  I  kept  my  re 
solve,  and  when  the  young  moon  arose,  bent  my  steps  toward 
the  mansion  of  my  mistress. 

*  She    received  me   coldly.     I  was    surprised    and    abashed. 
'  What  is  the  matter,  Em.,'  I  tenderly  inquired  :  '  did  you  get 
my  billet-doux  and  the  verses  to-day  ?' 

'  *  Yes  —  they  came  safe.' 
< '  Well,  how  did  you  like  them  ?' 

'  '  The  note  was  kind  and  good,  but  the  verses  were  foolish, 
ridiculous  nonsense.' 

I 1  was  thunderstruck.     I  asked  to  see  the  paper.     Emily  arose 
and  handed  it  to  me  ;  and  sitting  down  by  the  vine-clad  window, 
she  patted  her  little  foot  angrily  on  the  floor. 

'  I  opened  the  Elucidator  and  Tocsin,  and  read  my  jibem. 
Solomon  of  Jerusalem  !  what  inhuman  butchery — what  idiotcy ! 
But  I  will  give  the  effusion  as  it  was  printed,  l  and  shame  the 
devil? 

'TO   EMILY   B 

4  DEAR  GIRL  !  an  angel  sour  thou  art  — 

The  mule  of  every  spell ; 
That  brays  o'er  trumpets  to  my  heart, 
And  bids  my  bosom  swell. 

*  And  oh  !  darnation  o'er  thy  cheek 

Its  rudest  blister  bends; 
And  thy  blear  eyes  forever  speak 
A  welcome  to  thy  friends. 

•  Alas  !  if  fate  should  bind  us  fast, 

Life  would  be  rough  with  me  ; 
A  toad  would  rush  upon  my  heart, 
Without  a  smile  from  thee. 


42  OLLAPODIANA. 

*  Where  could  I  meet  a  lamp  so  fair 

In  Nature's  open  passage  ? 
With  thee  the  barbarous  flower  compare, 
And  own  my  grief  a  saussage  ? 

4  Forgive,  my  bore,  this  nasty  lay, 

And  let  its  numbers  be 
Sweet  monitors,  that  drily  dry, 
Shall  bid  thee  think  of  me!'  J.  S. 

'  When  I  had  read  this  diabolical  mass  of  stuff  over,  I  flew 
into  an  uncontrollable  rage.  In  the  blindness  of  my  chagrin,  I 
depreciated  the  judgment  of  Miss  Emily ;  I  thought  everybody 
could  see  the  errors,  and  detect  them  as  readily  as  I  did ;  and  I 
said  to  my  young  friend  that  she  must  have  been  very  stupid  or 
inattentive,  not  to  see  how  the  poem  ought  to  read.  This  roused 
in  her  bosom,  *  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Brinkerhoffs.'  She  handed 
me  my  hat,  and  pointed  significantly  to  the  door.  I  went  out  at 
the  aperture  thus  indicated,  and  have  never  darkened  it  since. 
Emily  is  now  the  wife  of  a  Connecticut  school-master,  who 
blows  the  pitch-pipe  and  leads  the  choir  on  Sunday,  in  her  fa 
ther's  church. 

1  This  was  my  first  passion,  and  my  last,  except  thatrinto 
which  I  have  been  roused  every  time  I  have  sent  a  piece  to  be 
published.  Yet  I  still  love  to  console  my  dreary  bachelorship 
by  writing,  and  seeing  my  thoughts  in  print ;  but  I  despair  of 
ever  seeing  them  rightly  uttered.  Fate,  in  that  regard,  is  against 
me,  and  probably  always  will  be.  «  T  9  ' 


AFTER  a  tragedy,  the  curtain  falls  to  slow  and  mournful  music. 
Should  the  leader  of  an  orchestra  on  such  an  occasion  strike  up 
Yandee  Doodle  or  Paddy  Carey,  the  contrast  would  be  absurd. 
I  feel  in  something  such  a  predicament  now.  I  have  introduced 
a  tragical  or  at  least  a  melodramatical  narration,  and  I  should  be 
unfeeling  indeed  to  follow  it  up  with  other  matters,  which  proba 
bly  would  be  of  a  cheerful  nature.  I  leave  the  story  of  my  visi- 
ter's  sorrow  and  reverses,  as  a  provocative  to  solemn  reflection  in 
the  reader,  upon  the  abuses  of  printing,  and  the  mutability  of 
types. 


OLLAPODIANA. 


NUMBER   FOUR. 

August,  1835. 

FROM  one  who  loves  to  babble  of  green  fields,  and  brooks  of 
running  crystal,  it  is  natural  to  expect  a  rhapsody  about  the 
country.  Listen  then,  reader,  to  me. 

I  affect  the  country,  with  a  most  engrossing  and  strong  attach 
ment.  It  awakens  my  tenderest  feelings  and  my  sweetest  asso 
ciations.  Delicious  reveries  descend  upon  my  spirit,  as  I  walk 
through  the  meadows  and  clover  fields,  when  the  earth  is  white 
"with  Summer,  and  glowing  with  beauty.  To  see  the  wide  land 
scape  undulating  around  you ;  to  hear  the  cling-clang  of  the 
mower's  whet-stone,  as  he  sharpen's  his  scythe,  while  the  heavy 
swaths  are  lying  around  ;  to  see  the  loaded  wain  rolling  onward 
to  the  garner,  with  fragrant  hay,  or  nodding  wheat-sheaves,  em 
bodiments  of  Plenty — these  sights  are  pleasant,  reader  :  and  you 
who  reside  in  cities,  where  unwritten  odors  of  a  most  questiona 
ble  salubrity  assail  your  indignant  nostril ;  who  breathe  chim- 
ney^smoke  and  dust,  and  suffer  the  secret  backbitings  of  numer 
ous  bugs,  mostly  of  metropolitan  origin — you,  I  say,  can  have 
no  imagination  of  the  delights  of  a  country  existence.  Your  hap 
less  ears  are  bored  at  morn  with  the  supernatural  shriek  of  the 
milk-man,  or  the  amphibious  voice  of  the  unmusical  clam-dealer, 
oyster-man,  or  sweep ;  and  you  lie  upon  your  bed,  tossing  in 
restless  disquiet ;  you  snore  maledictions,  and  think  daggers, 
though  you  use  none. 

But  out  of  town  —  oh,  it  is  perfect  !  Your  milk  is  fresh,  your 
strawberries  fresh,  rich,  and  succulent.  The  first  commodity  has 
not  been  watered  at  the  public  pump,  nor  are  the  latter  luxuries 
bruised  and  unclean.  I  must  drop  this  topic,  for  my  mouth  be- 
ginneth  to  water ;  a  complaint,  no  remedy  being  nigh,  that  is  un 
pleasant  to  the  last  degree. 

I  affect  the  country,  because  my  first  impressions  of  this 
breathing  world  were  formed  amid  its  hallowed  scenery.  I  was 
cradled  among  the  hills  ;  blue  mountains  melted  in  the  distance 
from  my  bed-room  window ;  broad  fields,  and  woods,  and  rivers, 
shone  between  ;  the  huge  rains  made  melody  on  the  roof  of 
Home  for  my  unsophisticated  ear,  and  I  became  steeped  in  the 
passionate  love  of  nature.  It  has  never  left  me.  I  rejoice  as  I 
call  back  those  pleasant  times,  when  in  the  casement  of  our  sem 
inary,  I  rested  my  telescope  on  my  shut-up  Virgil,  and  looked 
off  among  the  far-off  hills  in  the  lap  of  which  the  edifice  was 


44  OLLAPODIANA. 

navelled,  and  saw  the  pretty  girls  of  the  farm-houses,  whitening- 
their  long  pieces  of  brown  tow-cloth,  fresh  from  the  loom  ;  pick 
ing  raspberries  in  the  green  hedges  ;  drawing  cool  water,  in  the 
swinging  oaken-bucket,  to  make  switchel  withal,  for  the  swains, 
as  they  came  home  for  their  forenoon  lunch,  or  milking  their 
balm-breathing  cows,  '  in  the  golden  evening-tide  !'  Those  were 
happy  days !  and  if  I  learned  my  Latin  badly,  and  made  blun 
ders  in  recitation,  I  got  many  a  leaf  from  the  book  of  nature 
most  deeply  by  heart. 

There  is  something  exceedingly  grateful  in  the  country,  when 
you  'can,  as  far  as  literature  is  concerned,  enjoy  the  delectable 
urbs  in  rure  ;  when  you  can  get  books,  and  specially  newspapers  : 
for  whatsoever  may  be  said  by  man  or  woman,  as  touching  Edi 
tors,  they  are  famous  ministers  to  our  pleasure.  We  love  to 
peruse  their  sheets ;  and  even  in  times  of  political  excitement,, 
when  a  stranger  to  the  country  might  be  induced  to  believe  that 
the  greatest  rascals  in  the  republic  were  rival  candidates  for  its 
highest  honors  ;  when,  among  journalists,  each  one  seems  rempli 
de  colere,  and  ready  to  pull  every  opponent  by  the  individual 
nose  j  even  then,  we  love  to  read  their  writings.  We  like  to  see 
the  cut,  the  keen  retort,  the  hot  rejoinder,  and  the  sequent  quip. 
There  is  excitement  in  them. 

Commend  me  to  a  newspaper.  Cowper  had  never  seen  one 
of  our  big  sheets,  when  he  called  such  four-paged  folios  *  maps 
of  busy  life.'  They  are  more  —  they  are  life  itself.  Its  ever- 
sounding  and  resistless  voxpopuli  thunders  through  their  columns,, 
to  cheer  or  to  subdue,  to  elevate  or  to  destroy.  Let  a  scoundrel 
do  a  dirty  action,  and  get  his  name  and  deed  into  the  papers,  and 
and  then  go  into  the  street — Broadway,  for  example  —  and  you 
shall  see  his  reception.  Why  does  each  passer-by  curl  his  lip, 
and  regard  him  with  scorn  ?  Why  is  he  shunned,  as  if  a  noisome 
pestilence  breathed  around  him  ?  What  makes  every  man  ob 
serve  him  with  a  contemptuous  leer  ?  Because,  they  have  seen, 
the  newspaper,  and  they  know  him.  So,  in  a  contrary  degree,  is 
it  with  honorable  and  gifted  men.  The  news-prints  keep  their 
works  and  worth  before  the  public  eye  ;  and  when  themselves 
appear,  they  are  the  observed  of  all  observers.  Hats  are  lifted 
as  they  approach,  and  strangers  to  whom  they  are  pointed  out, 
gaze  after  them  with  reverence.  Success  to  newspapers  !  They 
are  liable,  it  is  true,  to  abuse — as  what  blessing  is  not  ? — but 
they  are  noble  benefits,  nevertheless.  What  an  endless  variety 
of  subjects,  too,  do  they  contain  !  Now  we  are  entertained  with 
original  dissertations  on  numerous  important  subjects ;  then,  ta 
use  the  quaint  old  catalogue  of  Burton,  «  come  ty dings  of  wed- 


OLLAPODIANA.  45 

dings,  maskings,  mummeries,  entertainments,  jubilees,  wars,  fires, 
inundations,  thefts,  murders,  massacres,  meteors,  comets,  spec- 
trums,  prodigies,  shippe-wracks,  piracies,  sea-fights,  lawsuits, 
pleas,  laws,  proclamations,  embassys,  trophies,  triumphs,  revels, 
sportes,  playes ;  then  again,  as  in  a  new-shifted  scene,  treasons, 
cheating  tricks,  robberies,  enormous  villanies  in  all  kindes,  funerals, 
burials,  new  discoveries,  expositions  ;  now  comicall,  then  tragi 
cal  matters.  To-day  we  hear  of  new  offices  created,  to-morrow 
of  great  men  deposed,  and  then  again  of  fresh  honors  conferred  ; 
one  is  let  loose,  another  prisoned ;  one  purchaseth,  another 
breaketh  ;  he  thrives,  his  neighbor  turneth  bankrupt ;  now  plenty, 
then  again  dearth  and  famine  ;  one  runs,  another  rides,  wrangles, 
laughs,  weepes,  and  so  forth.  Thus  we  do  daily  hear  such  like, 
both  public  and  private  news.' 

I  have  an  attachment  to  newspapers,  because  I  deem  them  a 
kind  of  moral  batteaux  de  plaisance,  or  rail-cars,  mayhap,  wherein 
you  can  embark  before  breakfast,  or  after  dinner,  and  survey  the 
world,  and  the  kingdoms  thereof.  It  is  a  cheap  and  right  whole 
some  way  of  journeying ;  and  indeed,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
national  jaunts,  is  about  the  only  mode  I  have  ever  employed :  for '  I 
travelle  not  save  in  mappe  and  carde,  in  which  my  unconfined 
thoughts  have  freely  expatiated,  as  having  ever  been  especially 
delighted  with  the  study  of  cosmogony.'  My  bias  for  newspapers 
is  at  least  an  honest  one  ;  and  I  have  been  driven  into  it  more 
perhaps  from  the  worthlessness  of  the  mass  of  re-published 
books,  than  from  the  intrinsic  merit  of  my  daily  and  and  hebdom- 
inal  visiters ;  for  the  name  of  these  aforesaid  books  is  legion  ; 
and  most  of  them,  if  in  sheets,  would  be  fit  only  *  to  put  under 
pies,  to  lap  spice  in,  and  keep  roast  meat  from  burning.' 

Rural  life  seldom  fails  to  accomplish  one  object ;  it  softens  the 
heart.  It  awakens  the  affections  and  leads  to  contemplation. 
{  GOD  made  the  country,  and  Man  made  the  town.'  In  the  for 
mer,  there  are  no  artificial  wants,  prejudices,  or  fashions  —  all  is 
cordiality,  comfort,  and  peace.  We  look  abroad  upon  the  solemn 
hills,  the  shining  streams,  and  waving  woodlands,  and  we  feel 
that  God  is  there!  His  hand  placed  the  rock-ribbed  mountain 
on  its  throne,  and  rolled  around  it  its  crown  of  misty  glory.  His 
breath  fills  the  blue  vault  that  swells  above,  until  immensity,  as 
it  were,  is  visible  ;  and  His  smile  is  shadowed  only  in  the  sun 
beams  which  traverse  those  abysses  of  mystery.  How  majestic 
is  the  coming  of  a  summer  storm  !  We  sit  at  the  window  of 
some  rural  mansion,  to  which  we  have  fled  from  the  thick  air  and 
heat  of  the  metropolis  ;  we  see  the  far-off  clouds  arise  like  giant 
forms  against  the  horizon,  with  spears  of  fire,  and  robes  of  pur- 


46  OLLAPODIANA. 

pie  and  gold  ;  then,  as  by  some  sudden  alchemy,  they  melt  into 
a  mass  of  solid  gloom,  from  whose  bosom  the  lightning  darts  its 
vivid  chain,  while  its  source 

« Hangs  o'er  the  solemn  landscape,  silent,  dark, 
Frowning  and  terrible.' 

I  have  said  that  the  country  melts  and  subdues  the  heart.  It 
is  true.  I  have  seen  a  Being,  in  the  'flush  and  glow  of  girlhood, 
who  seemed  to  live  and  move  in  an  atmosphere  of  lofty  and  pas 
sionate  excitement.  I  have  seen  thousands  hang  upon  her  ac 
cents,  as  she  moved  before  them,  like  the  Tragic  muse,  her  eye 
dilated  and  her  features  radiant  with  the  light  of  genius.  I  have 
seen  the  bosoms  of  the  young  and  beautiful  swelling  at  her  glance, 
and  the  tears  of  hundreds  flowing  at  her  bidding.  Was  there  en 
joyment  then,  in  the  mind  of  her  who  thus  moved  the  hearts  of 
others  by  the  momentary  tempest  that  awoke  in  her  own,  and 
tossed  them  on  the  *  lava  waves  and  gusts  of  her  own  soul  ? 
Alas,  no  !  It  was  the  mingling  of  labor  and  art ;  the  fitful  fever 
of  the  brain.  But  I  have  seen  that  One  presiding  at  the  board 
of  Home,  with  the  serenity  of  unutterable  affection  on  her  brow, 
and  the  radiance  of  happy  thoughts  in  her  eyes.  The  peace  of 
the  country  had  breathed  upon  her  heart ;  and  the  impulses  that 
its  scenes  engender,  had  tranquilized  her  being.  Could  this  be 
the  same  ?  Secluded,  yet  most  content,  she  had  forgotten  the 
hollow  pageantries  through  which  she  had  passed ;  the  noisy 
crowd ;  the  unbroken  applause ;  and  then,  the  prejudices  of 
altered  or  dishonest  critics,  and  the  gossip  of  the  multitude.  She 
had  other  objects  to  '  utterly  fulfil'  her  spirit.  A  cherub,  on 
whose  baby  brow  and  soft  Siddonian  lip,  she  could  rain  the  warm 
baptism  of  maternal  kisses ;  the  companionship  of  loving  friends 
and  elevated  thoughts  ;  communion  with  Nature — these  were 
her  treasures  and  her  guerdon.  Past  pre-judgments,  misguided 
frankness,  and  the  weakness  of  a  clouded  amor  patriot,  seemed 
alike  forgotten. 

Tell  me  not  that  the  country  is  lonesome.  It  is  rich  with 
voices  of  comfort,  and  tones  of  delight.  It  is  a  vast  and  solemn 
cathedral,  with  walls  and  roof  of  azure  and  gold,  unpillared  and 
illimitable  ;  its  floors  are  tesselated  with  rainbow-colored  flowers, 
and  silver  streams,  and  living  verdure.  It  is  a  haunt  wherein  to 
muse,  and  dream,  and  lift  the  soul,  until  the  heart  overflows  in 
the  religion  of  its  worship. 

TALKING  of  worship,  makes  me  say,  that  nothing  can  inspire 
in  me  a  deeper  feeling  of  devotion  than  sacred  music.  To  hear 


OLLAPODIANA.  47 

the  plaintive  overture  of  the  choir,  and  the  organ — the  stream  of 
melody  which  seems  to  roll  from  the  galleries,  and  to  dissolve 
as  it  flows,  into  a  kind  of  atmosphere  above  the  aisles — is  sooth 
ing  and  subduing.  It  banishes  every  low-thoughted  care,  and 
gives  us  *  such  glimpses  of  Heaven  as  saints  have  in  dreams.' 
One  fancies  that  he  hears  the  murmur  of  spirit-hymns,  or  else 
the  rustling  of  celestial  wings,  and  says  within  himself: 

'Let  but  a  little  part, 
A  wandering  breath  of  that  high  melody 

Descend  into  my  heart, 
And  change  it,  till  it  be 
Transformed,  and  swallowed  up,  oh  love !  in  thee  !' 

But  while  I  profess  my  affection  for  sacred  melodies,  I  can 
truly  say  that  the  secular  and  sentimental  music  of  the  day  is 
*  my  very  great  detestation,'  as  Laureate  Southey  said  of  albums* 
The  words  are  generally  namby-pamby,  to  the  last  extent ;  and 
are  sung  with  such  demi-grunts,  and  shrugs,  and  affected  cadences, 
that  I  had  as  lief  hear  the  town-crier,  or  that  other  stentorian 
personage  who  vociferates  O  yez  !  O  yez  !  at  a  city  court.  Then, 
what  contortions  of  phiz  do  singers  undergo  !  and  how  do  they 
torture  the  lungs  of  those  they  teach,  as  well  as  the  ears  of  those 
who  listen  !  l  Sir,'  said  an  intelligent  French  Count  once  to  me, 
as  we  were  listening  to  a  pupil  of  an  Italian  songster, '  This  mode 
would  destroy  the  best  chanteuse  in  the  world  ;  it  would  break 
the  ribs  of  a  diligence  horse — bah!*  I  thought  so  too.  Vo 
calists,  now-a-days,  are  obliged  to  stretch  their  jaws  almost  to 
dislocation,  and  they  roar  you  like  lions.  You  would  think,  to 
see  them  sing,  that  they  were  of  that  class  mentioned  in  sacred 
writ,  who  '  open  their  mouths  wide  for  the  latter  rain.'  They 
seem  to  delight  in  gutturals  and  grimace,  flourishes  and  falsettos. 
One  of  these  men,  whose  vocal  orifice  extended  horizontally 
almost  across  his  face,  applied  not  long  ago  to  a  waggish  physi 
cian  in  Philadelphia,  to  ask  his  advice  as  touching  the  probable 
success  of  an  operation  to  which  he  desired  to  submit  himself. 

1 1  have  sung  for  several  years  in  public,'  said  the  minstrel,  '  and 
I  find  that  the  changes  of  fashion  require  louder  tones  than  I  am 
able  to  utter,  while  my  mouth  retains  its  present  dimensions.  I 
am  obliged  to  whiffle  out  many  of  my  long  and  large  notes,  as  a 
grimalkin  cries  in  a  quinsy,  cracked  and  broken.  I  want  volume, 
and  I  have  called  to  know  whether  you  can  aid  me  in  effecting 
an  alteration  which  will  give  my  lips  a  fuller  and  freer  play,  and 
my  voice  more  freedom.' 

'  Perhaps  so,'  responded  the  physician  j  *  but  what  do  you  re 
quire  ?  What  do  you  propose  f ' 


48  OLLAPODIANA. 

1 1  wish,  I  say,'  returned  the  singer,  (who,  let  it  be  remem 
bered,  had  an  enormous  louche  of  his  own,)  '  that  my  mouth 
should  be  enlarged.  It  is  too  limited  for  my  purpose.' 

*  Oho  !'  said  the  doctor,  i  I  understand  you.  We'll  see  what 
can  be  done.' 

He  arose,  and  placing  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  patient, 
turned  it  to  and  fro,  like  a  barber's  garcon,  while  an  expression 
of  solemn  drollery  struggled  in  his  features. 

'  I  can  do  so,  Sir,'  he  continued,  after  a  short  pause,  *  and 
easily  ;  but  there  is  a  preliminary  operation,  which  may  distress 
and  perhaps  disfigure  you.  It  is  a  long  job,  and  you  may  not 
consent  to  it.' 

'  To  any  thing,  my  dear  doctor,  that  will  effect  my  object. 
Pray  tell  me  what  is  requisite  to  be  done  ?' 

1  Why,  my  friend,  you  wish  your  mouth  widened  :  it  is  now 
uncommonly  expansive  ;  and  in  order  to  extend  its  limits  any 
farther,  it  will  first  be  necessary  to  remove  your  ears,  they  being 
obstacles  at  each  corner!' 

It  may  be  conjectured  that  the  operation  was  declined,  and 
that  the  vocalist  quitted  his  adviser  in  the  sulks.  Such  was 
the  fact. 

By  the  way,  the  physician  of  whom  I  have  thus  spoken,  is  a 
kind  of  modern  Abernethy :  full  of  benevolence,  skill,  and 
merrimake.  He  knows  how  to  distinguish  to  a  nicety  between 
positive  illness  and  imaginary  ailments,  those  children  of  hypo 
chondria  and  spleen.  He  was  once,  and  that  not  '  sixty  years 
since,'  visited  by  a  bloated  and  ricketty  bon  vivant,  who  had  epi- 
curized  himself  almost  to  Death's  door,  where,  like  the  Irish 
man's  horse  in  the  play,  he  seemed  ready  to  go  in  without 
knocking.  His  proboscis  was  a  model  of  convivial  rubicundity  ; 
but  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  drawn  downward  with  a  look  of 
settled  misanthropy.  In  short,  he  had  eaten  too  much,  for  too 
long  a  time  ;  the  genial  juices  of  his  system  had  become  tart 
and  acid ;  while  his  mind,  never  the  most  cordial  or  elevated, 
had  become  cloudy,  sluggish,  and  indiscriminative  of  good. 

The  epicure  approached  the  Esculapian  disciple,  with  a  visage 
as  sour  as  if  he  had  just  effected  the  deglutition  of  all  the  ipeca 
cuanha  in  Christendom.  He  slid  with  his  gouty  limbs  into  a 
chair,  and  vociferated : 

*  Well,  doctor,  here  I  am,  and  I  am  just  going  to  die.  Not 
that  I  feel  so  very  bad  in  my  system,  but  just  look  at  my  nose  ! 
What  mean  those  devilish  carbuncles,  those  branching  red  veins  ! 
It  can't  be  eating — it  can't  be  drinking.  I  have  given  up  all  but 
one  slice  of  beef,  one  of  mutton,  and  one  of  pork,  at  dinner ;  I 


OLLAPODIANA.  49 

eat  fewer  potatoes  at  a  sitting  than  I  used  to  do ;  and  where  I  was 
wont  to  take  three  glasses  of  brandy,  or  wine,  whether  it  be  Ma 
deira,  Port,  Sherry,  or  Heidsiek,  I  now  take  but  two.  I  eat 
fewer  suppers,  or  at  least  not  quite  so  many  late  ones,  and  those 
not  so  heartily  as  I  once  did ;  yet  I  sleep  badly ;  have  strange 
dreams,  and  wear  this  salamander-looking  nose.  What  the  deuce 
am  I  to  do  ?  It  makes  me  very  unhappy.  It  torments  me  con 
tinually,  by  the  itching  which  it  produces.  I  want  your  candid 
opinion  on  this  matter,  doctor — and  I  want  it  soon  —  or  I  shall  be 
a  dead  man.' 

1  Well,  my  friend,'  replied  the  Healer  :  « I  have  but  one  thing 
to  recommend,  and  if  you  refuse  it,  all  is  lost.  I  have  often  told 
you  that  you  would  kill  yourself  with  gormandizing :  you  have 
visited  me  time  and  again  with  your  ailings,  and  all  my  advice, 
which  would  have  tended  to  remove  them,  have  been  studiously 
rejected.  I  can  do  no  more,  except  to  mention  the  remedy  with 
respect  to  your  distressed  member,  which  I  am  now  about  to  of 
fer.  You  say  it  annoys  you :  and  with  that  knowledge,  as  well 
as  a  sight  of  its  redness  in  my  eye,  I  repeat,  there  is  but  one 
course  for  you  to  pursue,  which  can  yield  you  relief.  If  after 
hearing  the  plan,  you  shall  decline  it,  let  the  peril  be  your  own. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  business.' 

'  Pray  tell  me,  doctor ;  I  will  follow  your  counsel  implicitly. 
I  vow,  I  fear  if  I  do  not,  that  these  incipient  eruptions  will  com 
bine  in  a  cancer.  Do  ease  me  at  once,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall 
do,  if  my  nose  continues  thus  to  itch  me.' 

'  Listen,  then,  for  your  comfort  depends  on  what  I  say.  If  it 
does  itch,  as  you  declare,  and  as  I  doubt  not — if  it  plagues  you 
thus,  you  can  only — I  say  it  solemnly,  as  I  said  before — you 
can  only  throw  yourself  upon  one  method  —  one  dernier  resort, 
which  is,  TO  SCRATCH  IT  !  Do  this,  and  relief  will  follow  ; 
and  remember  with  gratitude  that  it  was  I  advised  you  !  Good 
morning.' 

This  was  as  good  an  answer,  under  the  circumstances,  as 
could  have  been  made.  How  many  nervous  ladies  and  hypped 
gentlemen,  are  the  bane  of  the  physician — wearying  his  soul  out 
with  their  fancied  ills  !  It  were  well  if  we  had  more  Abernethys 
in  our  catalogue  of  doctors.  How  this  excellent  and  praise 
worthy  fraternity  contrive  to  enjoy  life  so  well,  and  to  look  so 
round  and  happy  as  the  most  of  them  do,  is  to  me  a  puzzle. 

SPEAKING  of  puzzles,  reminds  me,  Reader,  of  one  now  lying 
perdue  in  my  breeches  pocket,  which  I  am  about  to  transcribe 
for  your  edification.  Rack  your  brain  over  it,  for  it  is  a  verita- 


50  OLLAPODIANA. 

ble  enigma,  and  susceptible  of  solution.  Ten  to  one,  you  don't 
guess  it !  A  wide  round  has  that  enigma  gone,  among  the  Phil 
adelphia  lawyers  —  that  proverbially  puzzle-solving  tribe — yet  it 
remains  unravelled.  As  the  newspapers  say,  when  a  sheep  has 
been  stolen,  and  the  thief  escaped,  '  The  whole  matter  is  veiled 
in  impenetrable  mystery.'  It  was  engendered  by  a  savant  who 
wore  a  red  wig,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  snuff.  What  is  it  ? 
There's  the  question  ? 

A  NEW  PUZZLE. 

IT  is  as  high  as  all  the  stars, 

No  well  was  ever  sunk  so  low  ; 
It  is  in  age,  five  thousand  years, 

But  was  not  born  an  hour  ago. 

It  is  as  wet  as  water  is, 

No  red-hot  iron  e'er  was  drier ; 
As  dark  as  night,  as  cold  as  ice, 

Shines  like  the  sun,  and  burns  like  fire, 

No  soul,  nor  body  to  consume  — 

No  fox  more  cunning,  dunce  more  dull ; 

"Pis  not  on  earth,  'tis  in  this  room, 
Hard  as  a  stone  and  soft  as  wool. 

"Pis  of  no  color,  but  of  snow, 

Outside  and  inside  black  as  ink; 
All  red,  all  yellow,  green  and  blue — 

This  moment  youoipon  it  think. 

In  every  noise,  this  strikes  your  ear, 

'Twill  soon  expire,  'twill  ne'er  decay  ; 
Does  always  in  the  light  appear, 

And  yet  was  never  seen  by  day. 

Than  the  whole  earth  it  larger  is, 

Than  a  small  pin's  point 't  is  less ; 
I'll  tell  you  ten  times  what  it  is, 

Yet  after  all,  you  shall  not  guess ! 

'Tis  in  your  mouth,  't  was  never  nigh — 

Where'er  you  look,  you  see  it  still ; 
'Twill  make  you  laugh,  'twill  make  you  cry  ; 

You  feel  it  plain,  touch  what  you  will. 

I  have  no  great  respect  for  charades,  rebuses,  and  riddles,  but 
the  foregoing  puzzle  is  so  '  very  mysterious,'  as  Paul  Pry  would 
say,  that  it  will  well  repay  an  hour's  study.  Who  gives  it  up  ? 
I  consider  it  worth  finding  out.  It  will  be  found  different  from 
one  half  those  forlorn  enigmas  which  pay  so  poorly  for  a  discov 
ery.  Such  things  remind  me  of  the  missionary  who  was  ascend 
ing  the  Mississippi  with  some  religious  tracts,  and  stepped  on 


OLLAPODIANA.  51 

shore  from  a  flat-boat,  to  accost  an  old  lady  who  was  knitting  be 
fore  a  low  shanty,  under  a  tree  near  the  river.  It  was  in  the 
Asiatic  cholera  time,  and  the  epidemic  was  then  in  New  Orleans. 

'  My  good  woman,'  said  the  evangelist,  as  he  offered  her  a 
tract,  *  have  you  got  the  gospel  here  ?' 

*  No,  Sir,  we  han't,'  replied  the  old  crone,  '  but  they've  got  it 
awfully  down  to  New  O'leens  !' 

The  question  was  a  puzzle. 

It  is  better,  I  take  it,  to  laugh  than  to  cry ;  and,  Reader,  I 
hope  thou  relishest  a  joke.  If  thou  dost  not,  I  am  sorry  for 
thee.  If  thy  ears  are  deaf  to  jeux  d'esprit,  and  thine  eye  look- 
eth  around  upon  ttye  world  with  a  dullness  which  humor  cannot 
brighten,  then  I  say,  Go  to,  thou  art  not  of  my  kidney.  *  As  a 
Dutch  host,  if  you  come  to  an  inn  in  Germanic,  and  dislike  your 
fare,  diet,  lodging,  etc.,  replies,  in  a  surly  tone,  '  If  you  like  not 
this,  get  you  to  another  inn,'  so  I  resolve,  if  you  like  not  my 
writing,  go  read  something  else.  I  do  not  much  esteem  thy  cen 
sure  ;  take  thy  course  ;  't  is  not  as  thou  wilt,  nor  as  I  will ; 
for  every  man's  witty  labor  takes  not,  except  the  matter,  subject, 
occasion,  and  some  commending  favorite,  happen  to  it.' 

APROPOS  of  crying :  I  know  a  clever  and  venerable  septua 
genarian,  who,  when  he  should  laugh,  always  weeps.  Tell  him  a 
good  story,  or  a  bit  of  pleasant  news,  and  he  will  sob  as  if  his 
heart  would  break.  I  met  him  not  long  since  in  the  country,  in 
a  mixed  company  ;  the  brilliant  fragments  of  a  marriage  party. 
The  bridegroom  was  of  his  household ;  and  when  the  good  old  gen 
tleman  found  that  his  young  relative  had  committed  matrimony 
with  a  lovely  specimen  of  girlhood,  and  under  the  most  favorable 
auspices,  he  burst  forth  into  an  irrepressible  flood  of  sorrow  and 
joy  together.  His  chair  shook'  under  him  with  the  intensity  of 
his  emotions,  as  if  it  partook  of  them  ;  while  his  aged  optics  — 
*  purging  thick  amber  and  plum-tree  gum'  —  exhibited  his*  amia 
ble  weakness  in  a  fruitful  river  of  brine.  It  was  a  hearty  spec 
tacle,  to  see  such  sympathy  and  genial  feeling  in  the  bosom  of 
Age.  I  love  to  see  these  ancient  reservoirs  of  sentiment  occa 
sionally  stirred  up  with  the  pole  of  passing  events. 

'  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  party,  on  the  evening  of  the  bridal  T 
quoth  the  old  gentleman  to  one  of  the  nuptial  train. 

'  O,  delightful !'  was  the  answer — 'perfectly  delightful !' 

*  Good  gracious!' — responded  the  querist — 'you  don't  say 
so  !'  And  then  he  collapsed  again  into  a  paroxysm  of  doleful 
enjoyment,  that  was  most  edifying  to  observe. 

Well,  I  love  to  see  these  things ;  I  love  to  see  the  fountains 


52  OLLAPODIANA. 

of  affection  welling  up  from  the  slow-throbbing  heart  of  Eld. 
When  I  become  old  ;  when  the  vital  current  plays  tardily  and 
sadly  through  the  shrunken  conduits  of  my  frame  ;  when  at 
times,  I  *  'gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun ;'  when  the  sober  au 
tumnal  shadows  are  stealing  along  my  pathway,  and  voices  from 
the  Past  tell  me  how  many  are  lost  that  I  have  loved — then  let 
me  cherish  those  that  remain  ;  let  me  be  interested  in  their  en 
joyments,  and  let  the  light  which  beams  from  their  open  brows 
and  loving  eyes,  sink  warmly  on  my  heart ! 

By  the  way,  I  like  those  representations  of  age,  which  we  see 
sometimes  in  the  Scottish  pictures  of  Wilkie,  and  in  paintings  of 
the  Flemish  school — where  the  elderly  gentleman,  as  in  John 
Anderson  my  Jo,  is  represented  as  the  very  personification  of 
good  feeling.  I  love  to  see  your  '  old  'un'  enjoy  his  joke. 
How  well  do  I  remember  observing  my  father  sit  down  and  shake 
his  capacious  sides  over  KNICKERBOCKER'S  History  !  Yet  he 
was  a  sage,  grave  man  ;  had  shouldered  his  musket,  and  carried 
his  knapsack  through  many  a  long  campaign,  in  the  Revolution, 
and  commanded  his  troops  in  the  last  war  with  honor.  His  heart 
was  not  saddened,  however,  by  the  remembrance  of  the  trials  that 
he  had  endured  for  his  country  ;  and  well  was  he  able,  in  the  even 
ing  of  his  decline,  '-to  show  how  fields  were  won'  —  for  he  had 
won  them.  

MILITARY  matters  have  materially  altered  of  late  years. 
There  is  a  vast  deal  of  superfluous  courage  extant.  In  a  time 
of  profound  peace,  the  good  citizens  of  many  of  our  states  are 
bored  with  fines  and  mulcts,  that  ought  to  be  discarded  alto 
gether.  Then,  what  a  sight  do  some  of  our  militia  companies 
present?  They  remind  me  of  the  story  of  the  French  Prince, 
who  visited  England,  and  on  his  arrival  at  Cambridge,  was 
greeted  by  a  volunteer  company  of  neighboring  clowns,  com 
manded  by  a  supreme  hind,  who  exceeded  all  his  train-band  for 
clumsiness  and  bad  culture.  After  undergoing  a  sort  of  review 
before  the  noble  stranger,  the  captain  approached  him,  and  beg 
ged  to  know  the  opinion  he  entertained  of  the  company  that 
fronted  him. 

*  Sare,'  said  the  Prince,  '  I  'ave  seen  great  many  companie ; 
great  many  battallion ;  I  'ave  seen  de  grand  corps  de  Napoleon ; 
de  guard  National ;  I  'ave  seen  de  allied  armee ;  I  'ave  seen  de 
Swiss  and  de  Jarman,  de  Russ  and  de  Pruss,  but  ma  foi,  cap 
tain,  I  'ave  nevare  seen  such  an  extraordinare  companie  as  yours  ; 
nevare — nevare  /' 

The  compliment  was  considered  equivocal. 


OLLAPODI'ANA.  53 

Country  trainings  are  nearly  on  a  par  with  country  serenades. 
If  their  dispraise  can  be  expressed  in  a  more  appropriate  simile, 
I  should  be  glad  to  find  it  out.  A  friend  of  mine,  in  one  of  the 
interior  towns  of  the  Key-stone  State,  recently  undertook  to 
serenade  a  young  lady  toward  whom  he  had  a  kind  of  sentimen 
tal  propensity.  I  dare  say  he  promised  good  music,  being  far 
more  notorious  for  promises  than  performance ;  but  when  the 
evening  came,  the  expectant  damsel  was  greeted  with  such  a 
concord  of  sounds,  as  had  not  been  heard  since  the  days  of  Ba 
bel.  Tin  horns,  fiddles,  made  of  cornstalks,  cow-bells,  triangles, 
a  fife,  a  bass  drum  —  base  it  was  ! — and  that  guttural  instrument, 
the  bassoon ;  these,  played  upon  by  a  band  of  boorish  tatterde- 
mallians,  made  up  the  music  and  the  band.  The  wakeful  Venus 
endured  it  as  long  as  her  weak  nerves  would  allow ;  when  she 
arose,  *  in  bed  gown  clad,'  and  popping  her  night-cap' d  head  from 
the  window,  poured  forth  such  a  polyglott  remonstrance — in 
Dutch,  English,  and  patois — that  the  serenaders  were  obliged 
to  decamp  with  a  most  precipitate  scattering.  Would  that  our 
ungainly  and  useless  militia  might  obey  the  public  remon 
strance — follow  the  example,  and  do  likewise  ! 


NUMBER    FIVE. 

September,  1835. 

MY  good  friend  of  a  Reader,  let  us  have  another  chat  to 
gether.  I  must  spin  my  yarn  now  and  then,  or  I  should  grow 
melancholy,  and  you  would  burst  in  ignorance.  I  love  this  hap 
hazard  way  of  writing ;  I  can  be  as  discursive  as  a  disporting 
•  colt,  when  high-strung  health  incites  him  to  dancing  pleasaunce, 
and  his  frame  is  replete  with  pasture.  My  charter  is  as  large  as 
the  wind ;  and  I  allow  myself  to  '  flare  up'  on  almost  any  topic. 
It  is  the  best  way.  I  have  no  ambitious  veins  of  thought  under 
my  skull ;  I  expect  not  preferment ;  I  am  a  lover  of  quiet,  and 
•despise  notoriety.  I  leave  that  boon  to  be  clutched  at  by  a  thou- 
'  sand  little  celebrities  of  the  day.  I  wish  to  be  familiar,  but  not 
too  bold ;  and  easy,  but  not  too  tame,  neither.  Of  renown,  I 
experienced  enough  last  week  to  satisfy  me  for  a  decade.  My 
strongest  aspirations  were  gratified  by  the  appearance  of  my 
name  in  the  Post-office  list  of  letters  —  a  marked  distinction, 
which  seems  like  fame — and  for  which  two  extra  cents  were  paid 
without  a  murmur.  Now  that  my  name  is  up  in  this  way,  I  can 
afford  to  seize  my  quill,  and  let  it  play,  in  holyday  spirit,  among 


54  OLLAPODIANA. 

Scenes  and  Sentences.  Like  good  old  Democritus,  junior,  I 
can  say  to  him  who  reads  me,  that  ''Tis  not  my  study  or^intent 
to  compose  neatly,  which  an  orator  requires,  but  to  express  my 
self  readily  and  plainly,  as  it  happens ;  so  that,  as  a  river  runs, 
sometimes  precipitate  and  swift,  then  dull  and  slow ;  now  direct, 
then  per  ambages ;  nowr  deep,  then  shallow ;  now  broad,  then 
narrow,  doth  my  style  flowe ;  now  serious,  then  light ;  now 
comickal,  then  satyrickal ;  now  more  elaborate,  then  remiss,  as 
the  subject  requires,  or  I  stand  affected.  And  if  thou  vouchsafe 
to  read  this  treatise,  it  shall  seem  no  otherwise  to  thee  than  the 
way  to  an  ordinary  traveler — sometimes  foul,  sometimes  fair ; 
here  champion,  there  enclosed  ;  barren  in  one  place,  better  soil 
in  another  ;  by  woods,  groves,  hills,  dales,  plains,  and  so  forth, 
will  I  lead  thee  through  variety  of  objects,  some  of  which  thou 
.shalt  surely  like.'  This,  I  take  it,  is  the  way  to  be  agreeable. 
Your  fellow  who  sits  down  to  his  page  with  a  brimstone  spirit,  or 
with  turgid  thoughts,  generally  plays  the  part,  either  of  a  misan 
thrope  or  a  jackass ;  two  characters  that,  next  to  a  bum-bailiff 
after  a  militia  fine,  I  hold  in  the  supremest  contempt.  One  of  the 
first-mentioned  genus  I  know,  who  is  eternally  complaining  of  the 
world.  With  the  soul  of  indomitable  discontent  ever  rankling 
within  him,  he  looks  on  every  scene  with  an  eye  which  pleasure 
can  not  brighten ;  he  takes  every  child  of  Adam  for  a  rascal,  and 
for  all  he  meets  has  a  black  look  and  a  cross  word.  Yet  no  one, 
probably,  has  had  more  cause  of  gratitude,  than  himself,  for 
favors  and  benefactions  received  at  the  hands  of  his  fellows.  Yet 
he  goes  on,  Ishmael-like,  injuring  and  injured  ;  having  the  fool 
ishness  to  think  that  he  can  derive  pleasure  without  giving  it,  and 
repay  good  with  evil : 

4  He  is  a  sackcloth  bard,  GOD  help  his  grief! 

He  blames  the  bowers  with  night-shade  overrun ; 
He  weeps  his  eyes  red  o'er  a  faded  leaf, 
And  wastes  his  pathos  on  the  dying  sun.' 

He  supposes  that  men  are  monsters,  and  women  as  treacherous 
as  mermaids.  Thus  believing  and  acting,  he  is  ever  in  hot  wa 
ter.  To  hear  him  talk,  or  to  read  his  writings,  you  would  fancy* 
that  the  man  had  just  escaped  from  Bedlam.  Litigation  is  his 
element;  and  the  suffering  lawyers  whom  he  retains,  are  puzzled 
to  decide  which  is  the  most  doubtful,  the  character  of  their 
client,  or  their  prospect  of  pay.  You  would  laugh,  reader,  to 
hear  this  fellow  talk  about  the  wasting  calamities  of  life.  Ro 
bust,  whiskered,  and  sturdy  in  his  look — with  the  exception  of 
his  saffron-colored  visage,  that  index  of  bile  —  he  represents 
himself  as  the  elect  of  the  grave;  on  the  extremest  verge  of 


OLLAPODIANA.  55 

'which  he  would  be  thought  to  have  been  standing  any  time  these 
ten  years.  He  once  called,  at  a  University,  upon  a  friend  of 

mine,  who  was  busy  in  his  professorship.  '  Ah,  Mr.  L ,' 

said  he,  in  a  solemn,  sepulchral  tone,  'this  is  a  dark  day  for  me. 
Misery  is  my  lot ;  despair  dogs  my  footsteps ;  friends  cut  me ; 
the  fates  hunt  me  like  blood-hounds ;  and  a  cloud  of  obloquy 
hangs  about  my  name.  I  feel  that  my  country  is  unworthy  of 
such  a  nurseling  of  the  Nine  as  I.  I  think  of  going  to  Greece.' 

1  To  Greece  /'  exclaimed  the  professor;  *you  had  better  go  to 
grass  /' 

I  believe  he  took  the  learned  gentleman's  advice ;  for  he  seems 
to  have  been  ever  since  on  the  journey. 

Now  this  is  a  specimen  of  a  class  of  men,  that  I  sincerely 
pity,  and  can  not  abide.  They  are  canine  occupants  of  the  great 
manger  of  life  ;  they  eat  not  themselves,  in  peace,  neither  will 
they  let  others.  I  aroynt  them,  one  and  all.  I  love  your  good, 
hearty  person,  who  does  not  despise  his  fellow  men,  nor  deem 
them  all  caitiffs ;  who  has  a  smile,  a  joke,  and  human  sympathies. 
There  is  nothing  like  these,  unless  it  be  susceptibility  to  beauty. 
This  is  a  source  of  superior  pleasure.  Who  does  not  love  to 
look  at  a  pretty  woman  ? 

*  Who  can  curiously  behold 

The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  Beauty's  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old?' 

I  regard  ladies  in  public  masses,  as  I  do  a  splendid  gallery  of 
pictures.  I  say,  reader — just  in  your  individual  ear — ^-  did  you 
never  particularly  relish  a  jaunt  on  board  a  steam-boat,  when  you 
found  beautiful  women  there  ?  Tell  me  honestly,  did  they  not, 
though  strangers,  materially  enhance  the  delightsomeness  of  your 
journey  ?  Have  you  not  singled  out  some  fairest  One  of  them 
all,  and  directed  a  volley  of  desperately-agreeable  looks  to  her- 
ivard  ;  greatly  delectated,  peradventure,  when  they  met  return  ? 
You  sit  and  feel  the  bland  air  playing  over  your  temples  ;  the 
broad  river  expands  before  you  ;  beautiful  scenes  flit  by  on  either 
side  ;  and  then  you  drink  in  a  delicious  intoxication  with  your 
eyes,  which  delights  the  more,  because  you  know  it  is  epheme 
ral.  It  is  one  of  those  pleasures  that  nobody  writes  about,  and 
every  body  feels.  And  do  you  not  entertain  a  deep  regret,  when 
the  city,  with  its  pompous  spires  and  bay,  appears  in  view ;  when 
you  near  the  crowded  wharf,  and  amid  bustling  trunk-hunters  and 
band-box  exporters,  you  perceive  your  eye-acquaintance  glide 
away  ?  Somebody  stands  near  the  wharf ;  it  is  her  cousin 
>  George,  or  Henry,  and  her  sister.  Don't  you  envy  the  young 


56  OLLAPODIANA. 

thing  who  inserts  her  sweet  face  and  pouting  lips  under  that  veil,, 
and  receives  that  ringing  kiss  ?  To  be  sure  you  do  —  and  that 
is  just  all  the  good  it  does  you.  The  fair  Inconnue  is  rolled  off 
in  a  coach,  and  the  next  day  you  have  forgotten  her  altogether. 
This  is  one  of  those  cheap  and  unmentioned  felicities,  of  which 
we  have  so  many  to  sweeten  existence  ;  that  are  as  pleasant  as 

they  are  pure  and  fleeting  to  the  participant,  and  which  are 

mortal  flat  to  a  spectator! 

It  is  with  the  troubles  of  life,  as  with  its  pleasures ;  there  are 
a  great  many  that  you  can  not  allude  to.  Somebody  may  annoy 
you  in  an  unredressable  way  ;  places  that  you  wish  to  visit  may  be 
*  improved'  by  others  ;  a  man  may  change  hats  with  you,  seduce 
your  umbrella,  or  tread  on  your  toe.  But  I  can  always  endure 
these  things  at  an  opera,  or  a  play,  when  well  attended.  Beauty 
hallows  and  sanctifies  a  thousand  inconveniences.  I  have  stood 
in  a  kind  of  rapture,  looking  at  feminine  loveliness,  when  I  was 
hedged  around  in  a  back  box  by  a  clan  of  unctuous  and  perspir 
ing  varlets ;  but  when  I  could  discern  Beauty,  I  cared  not.  I 
could  mark  the  Phidian  lip,  the  Grecian  nose,  the  uplifted,  open 
brow,  the  tasteful  coiffure,  and  see  the  negligent  eye-lashes  rise 
and  fall,  over  orbs  of  surpassing  lustre.  What  cared  I,  that 
their  light,  as  if  *  shot  from  the  deadly  level  of  a  gun,'  came  to 
me  past  the  old  hats  and  oily  coats  of  expectorating  vagabonds  ? 

I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  such  things  do  greatly  augment 
one's  better  sympathies.  And  it  is  often  done  by  ocular  decep 
tion.  I  have  a  friend  who  always  construes  a  look  from  a  lady, 
at  an  opera  or  play,  as  a  direct  tribute  to  himself ;  yet  he  is  short 
sighted,  and  can  not  tell,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  whether  he  is 
the  observed  or  not.  His  amour  propre,  however,  always  takes 
the  brightest. side.  I  know  several  blades  who,  from  this  cause, 
are  patronising  tailors  to  an  extravagant  degree ;  depredating  upon 
every  one  of  those  artisans  who  *  exults  to  trust,  and  blushes  to 
be  paid.'  One  youth  of  this  kind  I  know — a  dolt  of  the  very 
first  water — who  said  to  an  acquaintance,  recently,  in  my  pres 
ence  :  '  Do  you  know  the  Miss 's  of  Noo-Yawk  ?  What 

devilish  susceptible  crechures  they  ar',  to  be  su-ah  !  I  called  on 
them  a  few  months  ago,  and  sang  to  them  '  Zurich's  Waters,' 
aud  *  Me  Sister  De-ah,'  and  don't  you  think,  they  both  fell  hi 
love  with  me?  Egad,  they  did  so;  but  I  couldn't  relieve,  and 
so  I  cut  them.  I  vow  I  won't  be  cruel  to  anybody  if  Lean 
help  it ;  I  won't,  positively ;  would  you  ?' 

This  was  at  an  Ordinary.  *  I  say,  straanger,'  said  a  rough- 
looking  book-pedlar  from  Illinois vwho  sat  near  this  scented  brag 
gart,  'you  are  not  a  man,  are  you?  —  a  full-bound  man?  You- 


OLLAPODIANA.  67 

don't  sartingly  answer  to  a  masculine  title,  do  you  ?  I  should 
take  you  for  a  pocket  edition  of  a  sheep.  Them's  my  sentiments, 
and  you  have  'em  gratis.  You  havn't  brains  enough  to  fascinate 
a  kitten  ;  yet  you  do  raally  fancy  you  are  something  oncommon  ! 
You  are  too  flat  to  keep  your  eyes  open,  fully ;  and  I'll  bet  a 
wolf-trap,  that  the  sight  of  a  full-blown  poppy  would  set  you  to 
sleep,  any  time.  Oh,  pshaw !  Landlord,  give  this  thing  a  weak 
lemonade,  scented  with  rose  water,  and  tote  me  a  pint  of  brandy ;. 
hot,  with  a  red  pepper  in  it,  and  a  common  segar.  I'll  go 
bail  for  the  bill.' 

The  irresistible  young  man  walked  off,  with  a  mingled  look  of 
inanity  and  anger.  

IT  is  astonishing  how  many  stupid  people  you  meet  in  society ; 
fellows  with  brains  in  their  purses,  who  will  talk  you  an  infinite 
deal  of  nothing,  and  thus  beget  a  reputation  of  being  remarkably 
fluent  and  agreeable  persons.  A  sample  of  this  genus  I  lately 
encountered  in  a  fashionable  drawing-room.  I  inquired  after  the 
health  of  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  friend  of  his,  whom  he 
had  met  in  Washington,  during  the  winter,  adding  that  I  esteemed 
him  a  fine  fellow. 

*  Fine  fellow,'  said  Mr.  Voluble  Pipkins,  *  fine  fellow,  d'ye 
say?     By  Jove,  he's  not  only  a  fine  fellow,  Sir,  but  d'ye  ob 
serve,  he's  a  good  fellow — a  glorious  fellow  —  a  noble  man,  Sir;, 
an  immense,  a  stupendous  man.    Egad,  Sir,  I  consider  him  equal 
to — Moore's  Melodies!' 

I  tried  to  review  this  laudatory  emission  of  vox  et  preterea  nihil, 
and  to  ascertain  what  Moore's  Melodies  had  to  do  in  comparison 
with  a  clever  fellow,  but  a  new  outpouring  of  verbiage  left  me  no 
time  for  the  effort. 

Pipkins  now  began  to  describe  his  travels  in  the  South,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  gave  a  fact  an  inference  that  I  thought  rather 
unique. 

1  How  do  you  like  the  Southrons  ?'  I  inquired. 

*  Oh,  bless  you,  ver'  well ;   ver'  well ;   the  moral  excellence 
of  the  people  is  proverbial ;  but  the  mutton  is  scarce  and  poor. 
However,  I  don't  like  mutton,  myself!' 


A  GREAT  many  young  men  imagine  that  any  thing  can  be  said 
to  a  woman  in  the  way  of  nonsense,  and  relished  to  boot.  I  re 
member  a  country  party,  a  few  miles  from  the  metropolis,  where 
a  few  young  middies  and  dragoons  were  invited.  The  rosy- 
cheeked  girls  were  playing  blind  man's  buff,  when  we  arrived. 


58  OLLAPODIANA. 

A  few  maids,  beyond  a  certain  age,  were  planted  round  the  sides 
of  the  apartment.  Toward  one  of  these,  a  mischievous  young 
dragoon  bent  his  way.  He  was,  let  me  premise,  in  the  incipiency 
of  jollification. 

*  Tranquil  lady!'  said  he,  with  a  grave  look,  'you  seem  to 
contemplate  this  scene  of  enjoyment  with  an  indifferent  eye.    To 
me  it  is  a  picture  of  delight.     It  warms  my  bosom  extensively. 
It  gives  to  my  mental  optics  those  scenes  in  the  West,  where  the 
settlers   used   to  recruit  our   corpuses  with   creatur'  comforts. 
It  reminds  me  of  the  pleasant  days  of  my  youth,  when  I  lay  upon 
the  damp  cold  earth,  and  listened  to  the  cannon's  roaring  sym 
phonies.' 

*  I  don't  understand  that  'are,'  said  the  ancient  damsel,  in  a 
husky  tone,  and  with  a  look  uncommonly  '  furtive.' 

Reader,  did  you  ever  eat  a  supper  at  a  country  party  ?  It  is 
quite  Vautre  chose  from  one  in  the  city.  Your  ice-cream,  salads, 
and  champaigne,  are  not  there ;  but  in  their  stead  are  substan 
tialities  of  the  heaviest  kind.  It  is  a  sort  of  late  dinner,  and 
you  have  course  after  course  in  eternal  abundance.  In  the  pres 
ent  case, 

« 'Tis  fit  that  I  should  tell  you  what 

Those  gentles  had  to  eat ; 
How  ale  went  round,  and  how,  GOD  wot, 

The  tables  groaned  with  meat. 
Suffice  to  say,  that  trim  sirloin 
Of  bullock,  proud  in  death  to  join 

With  radish-of-the-horse ; 
Flanked  by  a  soup's  embossed  tureen, 
And  eke  by  cauliflower,  of  mein 
Winsome  and  white  as  ere  was  seen, 

Adorned  the  firstling  course.' 

This  was  followed  by  a  various  profusion  of  good  things,  the 
number  of  which  it  would  have  puzzled  Zerah  Colburn  to  com 
pute.  I  never  saw  so  complete  a  specimen  of  a  legitimate  rural 
repast.  It  was  broad  morning  before  we  came  home  ;  none  of 
us  at  a  loss  to  know  why  such  a  difference  exists  between  the 
delicate  belles  of  cities,  and  their  buxom  rivals  of  the  country. 


SPEAKING  of  country  girls — you  will  see  them  at  camp-meet 
ings,  plenty  as  blackberries.  Did  you  ever  visit  one  of  these 
convocations  ?  There  is  a  sublimity  about  them,  notwithstanding 
several  ludicrous  features,  which  must  be  felt  to  be  appreciated. 
I  once  attended  one,  in  the  interior  of  New  York.  It  was  Au 
tumn,  and  our  partly  left  home  on  a  tour  of  ten  miles,  just  as  the 


OLLAPODIANA.  59 

evening  sun  was  sending  his  slant  radiance  over  the  many-colored 
glories  of  an  October  landscape.  River,  lake,  and  gorgeous 
woodland,  shone  in  the  declining  day-beams ;  the  tall  poplar 
gave  to  the  gale  its  yellow  leaf,  and  melancholy  whisper ;  the 
moping  owl,  as  the  twilight  deepened,  complained  to  the  moon. 
I  was  quite  young,  and  full  to  overflowing  with  animal  spirits. 
But  when  we  reached  the  camp-ground,  in  the  forest,  I  was 
hushed  into  awe.  It  was  enclosed  by  a  hedge  of  green  boughs, 
nearly  a  mile  in  circumference ;  tents  encircled  the  area,  against 
the  hedge,  and  the  light  of  torches  placed  in  sticks  high  among 
the  trees,  beamed  fitfully  in  the  evening  gusts,  upon  the  varie 
gated  and  swaying  boughs  of  the  wilderness.  Unperceived,  I 
clomb  a  sapling  by  the  side  of  our  tent,  and  surveyed  the  scene. 
From  a  rude  pulpit  in  the  midst  of  the  vast  assemblage,  a 
sonorous  ^preacher  was  delivering  his  message.  He  spoke  with 
much  eloquence,  and  ended  with  prayer,  and  the  naming  of  a 
hymn.  The  multitude  beneath  him  tossed  tumultuously  around, 
a  living  ocean  of  humanity.  Shrieks,  groans,  supplications,  and 
cries  of  '  glory !'  rent  the  air.  Sundry  brethren  were  moving 
briskly  about,  comforting  mourners,  and  singing  snatches  of 
sacred  song.  Never  shall  I  forget  one  sweet  voice,  seemingly 
endowed  with  supernatural  melody,  breathing  out : 

'  JESUS,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  billows  o'er  me  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high. 
Hide  me,  oh!  my  SAVIOUR,  hide, 

Till  the  storms  of  life  be  past ; 
Safely  to  the  haven  guide, 

Oh  receive  my  soul  at  last !' 

Beyond  the  enclosure,  I  could  perceive  groups  of  ragamuffins, 
with  torches  stuck  in  the  ground,  under  the  boughs  of  a  dark 
and  gloomy  pine,  swearing,  drinking,  and  playing  cards  with  a 
straggling  party  of  friendly  Indians.  It  was  an  Ollapodiana  kind 
of  a  scene. 

When  the  hymn  was  finished,  one  of  those  dull  souls  arose, 
of  whom  not  a  few  may  be  found  in  all  persuasions,  who  seem 
ordained  of  heaven  to  make  their  audiences  literal  specimens  of 
self-denial,  by  listening  to  their  ministrations.  He  drawled  out 
his  vapid  sentences  in  the  worst  and  weakest  taste.  His  text 
was  from  the  parable  of  the  Rich  Man  and  Lazarus.  In  des 
cribing  the  beggar  at  the  gate  of  Dives,  (so  beautifully  depicted 
by  David  Teniers,  in  his  Mauvais  Riche,)  he  said  it  was  not 
wonderful  that  the  mendicant  should  have  chosen  such  a  posi- 


60  OLLAPODIANA. 

tion  :  '  for,'  said  he,  logically,  *  provisions  in  them  .days  was 
sumptuous  and  plenty.  Even  the  beggars  got  a  good  living,  and 
Lazarus,  no  doubt  of  it,  liked  his  place.  Individiwals  of  his 
calling  didn't  then  get  from  rich  men's  tables,  as  they  do  now, 
little  bits  of  bread,  and  'tature,  and  pork,  and  pickle ;  no,  my 
hearers,  they  got  great  plates  of  pie,  and  sich  things.  Hence 
we  view,  that  Lazarus  was  in  dan-ger,  when  surrounded  with 
dogs,  that  might  have  stolen  half  his  victuals  !' 

It  came  to  pass,  some  months  after  this,  that  a  friend  of  mine 
heard  this  same  divine  preach  a  sermon  at  the  funeral  of  a  middle 
aged  lady,  who  was  greatly  beloved  in  the  community  where  she 
died.  Her  family  was  large,  and  highly  respectable  ;  but  having 
moved  a  long  time  previous  from  a  neighboring  State,  little  was 
known  of  their  origin.  The  obsequies  were  attended  by  a  large 
and  sympathising  community.  The  preacher  opened  his  dis 
course,  by  speaking  of  the  good  character  of  the  deceased,  and 
the  sad  occasion  which  called  the  company  together.  '  But,  my 
friends,'  said  he,  '  unknown  to  you,  I  have  greater  cause  for 
seriousness  at  this  solemn  time,  than  any  one  before  me.  Even 
these  surviving  relations,  who  are  most  interested  in  what  I  am 
going  to  communicate,  have  forgotten  the  time  when,  long  ago, 
and  afar  off,  they  once  heard  my  voice.  It  is  now  about  twenty 
years  since  the  father  of  the  deceased,  and  of  her  brothers  and 
sisters  now  seated  with  other  relatives  present,  suddenly  expired 
before  my  eyes.  Yes,  I  had  the  melancholy  satisfaction,  among 
thousands  of  others,  of  seeing  him  hung.  I  read  the  hymn 
which  was  sung  ere  he  swung ;  and  I  hope  —  though  he  seemed 
not  to  relish  my  informing  him  that  he  would  soon  go  from  '  works 
to  rewards,'  nor  to  appreciate  my  kind  advice  generally — that* 
as  most  persons  who  die  from  the  scaffold  generally  do,  he  went 
to  glory,  right  off.' 

With  this  pleasing  and  complimentary  reminiscence,  the  speak 
er  took  his  text  from  that  chapter  in  the  book  of  Esther,  wherein 
is  recorded  the  execution  of  Haman.  From  this  he  drew,  neck 
and  heels,  the  far-fetched  inference,  that  all  earthly  things  were 
uncertain,  and  that  it  was  equally  hard  to  tell  how,  as  when,  we 
should  die.  After  a  prolix  *  improvement,'  he  concluded  —  to 
the  great  edification,  doubtless,  of  the  audience  in  general,  and 
the  mourners  in  particular. 

To  return  to  our  camp-meeting.  We  left  the  ground  as  the 
day  was  breaking.  The  noisy  congregation  ;  the  declining  watch- 
fires  by  the  tents ;  the  solemn  drapery  of  the  tall  cedars,  just 
catching  the  first  smile  of  Light ;  all  formed  a  scene  to  be  re 
membered.  I  think,  now,  how  appropriately  could  have  been 


OLLAPODIANA. 


61 


applied  to  it,  as  we  stepped  slowly  from  the  ground,  the  lines  of 
Mrs.  Hemans : 

'  Yes,  lightly,  softly  move ! 
There  is  a  Power,  a  Presence  in  the  woods ; 
A  viewless  Being,  that  with  life  and  love 
Informs  the  reverential  solitudes  ; 
*      The  rich  air  knows  it,  and  the  mossy  sod — 
Thou,  Thou  art  here,  my  GOD  ! 

*  And  if  with  awe  we  tread 
The  minster  floor,  beneath  the  storied  pane, 

And  'midst  the  mouldering  banners  of  the  dead, 
Will  the  green,  voiceful  wild  seem  less  Thy  fane? 
This  fane,  which  Thou  hast  built  ?  —  where  arch  and  roof 
Are  of  Thy  living  woof?' 


LET  me  say  one  word,  Reader,  of  her  from  whom  I  have 
just  quoted.  She  was  my  friend,  and  we  have  often  exchanged 
thoughts  and  words  with  each  other.  Not  soon  shall  we  look 
upon  her  like  again.  She  was  a  pure  spirit,  essentially  disem 
bodied,  before  she  left  the  world.  Made  '  perfect  through  suffer 
ing,'  she  seemed  permitted  by  Heaven  to  linger  beyond  her  time 
on  earth,  a  glorious  example  of  feminine  loveliness  beautified  by 
Pain.  A  volume  only  would  do  justice  to  her  worth ;  and  for 
her  gifts,  her  works  remain  their  eulogy.  In  all  things,  I  revered 
her ;  and  while  musing  to  her  memory,  may  I  usurp  a  signature, 
and  trust  myself  in  song  ? 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

WE  weep  not,  when  the  yellow  leaves  are  gathered, 
While  Autumn's  peace  and  plenteousness  abound ; 

When  from  the  tinted  boughs,  like  rainbows  withered, 
The  golden  fruit  drops  richly  to  the  ground ; 

When  solemn  Nature  round  her  sadness  throws 

A  mellow  glory  and  a  warm  repose. 

We  weep  not  then,  amid  the  fruitage  falling, 

Whose  affluent  incense  rises  to  the  sky ; 
Though  then  we  hear  soft  spirit-voices  calling, 

That  tell  how  loved  and  cherished  things  must  die; 
For  to  the  fairest  blooms  a  change  must  come, 
That  the  ripe  treasures  may  be  garnered  home. 

'Twas  thus  with  thee,  Beloved  !  their  holy  mission 

Thy  heart  and  soaring  lays  at  last  fulfilled ; 
Then  rolled  the  cloud  beyond  the  spirit's  vision, 

Till  all  the  music  of  thy  lyre  was  stilled  ; 
And  like  a  melting  wave,  or  waning  sun, 
Passed  from  this  vale  of  ill  the  Gifted  One  ! 


62  OLLAPODIANA. 

"Pis  well,  divinest  Soul,  with  thee !  for  Heaven 

Had  filled  thine  inmost  thoughts  with  sacred  dreams  'r 

And  to  thy  reverie  and  song  was  given 
A  world  of  radiant  and  immortal  gleams ; 

Yea,  gorgeous  pictures  of  a  better  land 

Did  ever  to  thy  view  their  scene  expand, 

Now,  all  their  fadeless  pomp  and  glow  perceiving, 

Thou  breathest  freely,  in  celestial  air ; 
Thy  tender  heart  hath  ceased  its  weary  grieving, 

And  the  pure  mind  is  bathed  in  rapture  there ; 
While,  mid  fair  ways  no  earthly  foot  hath  trod, 
In  white  thou  walkest,  present  with  thy  GOD  ! 

Thou  hearest  melody,  whose  flowing  numbers 

Once  came  but  faintly  to  thy  mortal  ear, 
When  ills  of  time  were  lost  in  evening  slumbers, 

And  magic  Fancy  brought  her  Eden  near; 
Thou  hast  thy  yearning  hopes'  fruition  now — 
The  wreath  of  Paradise  surrounds  thy  brow ! 

Thou  hearest  harps  delicious,  sweetly  ringing, 
And  sister  Spirits  fan  thee  with  their  wings; 

With -them  thou  minglest,  and  with  them  art  singing, 
Where,  named  of  Life,  the  crystal  river  springs; 

Where,  like  some  changing  prism,  expand  the  skies, 

And  purple  hills  from  vernal  vales  arise. 

Thou  art  in  glory,  oh  rejoicing  Spirit ! 

Thou  look'st  on  flowers  that  no  pale  frost  may  stain; 
And  from  a  changeless  Friend  thou  dost  inherit 

A  lyre  triumphant,  breathing  not  of  pain ; 
Thou  hast  thy  Home  at  last,  from  sorrow  free, 
And  all  is  blessedness  and  peace  with  thee ! 
Philadelphia.  w.  G.  c. 

I  have  just  seen  an  engraved  bust  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  which  I 
can  not  doubt  is  a  perfect  resemblance  of  her  features,  with  the 
exception  of  the  eyes.  It  was  taken,  as  I  suppose,  in  her  early 
and  happy  days.  The  soft  wavy  locks  are  parted  sweetly  on  her 
high  forehead,  and  fall  in  beautiful  tresses  by  either  cheek ;  the 
expression  of  the  face  is  cheerful — beautiful ;  and  every  linea 
ment  betokens  the  presence  of  intellect.  The  temples  are  lofty 
and  full ;  and  the  department  of  the  brain  strongly  developed. 

I  PERCEIVE  that  I  am  beginning  to  speak  like  a  phrenologist, 
for  which  I  beg  my  reader's  pardon.  I  have  small  sympathy 
and  respect  for  those  learned  professors  of  craniology.  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  human  skull  ever  was  intended  as  a  sort  of  topo 
graphical  chart  of  the  soul  and  its  affections.  The  general  prin 
ciples  of  the  science  are  plausible — perhaps  true  ;  but  when  you 
come  to  subdivide  a  man's  sconce  into  innumerable  sections  of 


OLLAPODIANA.  63 

thought  and  feeling ;  when  you  give  to  every  impulse  its  place  of 
origin ;  it  is,  as  ray  friend  Grant  Thorburn  said  in  Boston, 
'  coming  to  rather  close  quarters.'  The  truth  is,  such  a  science, 
pursued  to  its  ultimatum,  is  the  height  of  folly.  I  have  no  reve 
rence  for  names,  thank  heaven !  unless  they  are  hallowed  by  rea 
son.  I  acknowledge  that  the  brain  is  placed  in  a  certain  part  of 
the  human  head  ;  that  if  that  part  be  small,  or  diminished,  the 
quantity  of  gumption,  in  the  individual  who  owns  the  sconce, 
will  be  *  nothing  to  speak  of;'  and  this  is  the  extent  of  my  phre 
nology.  Half  the  modern  professors  of  this  science  are  as  ar 
rant  quacks  as  ever  vended  nostrum.  They  tell  a  story  of  an 
acquaintance  of  mine  —  a  wag,  who,  by  the  way,  has  never  denied 
it  —  to  this  effect.  He  was  determined  to  quiz  a  phrenologist. 
Accordingly,  he  repaired  to  his  shoe-maker,  and  caused  him  to 
place  upon  his  head  an  enormous  organ  of  wax.  The  disciple 
of  Crispin  performed  his  task  well ;  placed  the  organ  rightly  ac 
cording  to  the  lithographed  plate,  and  stuck  upon  it  a  goodly 
covering  of  human  hair.  Thus  accoutered,  our  hero  visited  the 
phrenological  professor.  He  submitted  his  head  to  the  decisive 
palms  of  his  Bump-ship,  and  received  his  opinion.  *  God  bless 
me,  Sir!'  said  the  learned  judge,  'you  have  an  admirable  head, 
in  many  respects ;  but  you  possess  one  organ  which  speaks 
volumes  for  your  character.' 

c  What  is  that,  pray  ?' 

'  This  is  it,  Sir  —  allow  me  to  direct  your  hand  to  it,  Sir  — 
this  is  it.  Do  you  feel  it  ?  That,  Sir,  is  the  organ  of  adhesive 
ness —  and  never  before,  I  think,  did  I  see  it  so  strongly  de 
veloped.  Believe  me,  Sir,  you  are  a  wonderful  exemplification 
of  our  theory;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  I  should  almost  be 
tempted  to  pronounce  you  a  lusus  natures  of  science.' 

'  No  you  don't !'  said  the  patient,  removing  the  waxen  pro 
tuberance  ;  *  you  are  the  curiosity ;  you  can't  tell  gum  from 
gumption !' 

I  MUST  close.  I  fear  I  am  getting  prosy — which  I  dislike, 
of  all  things.  It  is  pleasant  to  talk  for  a  while,  when  our  spirits 
are  animated,  and  we  feel  colloquial ;  but  it  is  folly  to  push  con 
versation,  when  the  soul  which  creates  it  begins  to  flag.  It  is 
like  the  attempt  at  festivity  among  the  last  lingerers  at  a  ball,  in 
the  '  small  hours'  of  the  morning — a  deplorable  scene  ! 

'  All,  all  is  gloom  !  and  dandies  in  the  dumps, 
Dance  in  responsive  dullness  to  their  pumps, 
Like  some  town  hack,  that,  spavined,  old,  and  blind, 
Trots  to  the  wheezing  of  his  broken  wind.* 


64  OLLAPODIANA. 

Ere  long,  reader,  we  will  discourse  together  again  ;  in  October, 
probably — in  November,  certainly.  *  There  will  be  divine  sar- 
vice  in  this  meeting-house,'  said  a  colored  man  of  GOD,  at  a 
church  of  his  order,  '  in  a  fortnight,  GOD  willing  —  in  tree  week, 
whederornoT  I  reject  such  predictions;  but  I  hope  we  shall 
meet  again,  my  *  reading  public' — 'till  when,  a  Dieu  !  Voila  le 
commencement  dufin  /' 


NUMBER    SIX. 

October,  1835. 

MAGNIFICENT  and  pompous  Autumn  !  It  cometh  before  me 
with  *  dyed  garments'  of  glory  ;  with  trailing  clouds  of  innumer- 
ous  tints,  with  leaves  that  fill  the  air  with  solemn  whispers,  and 
paint  the  viewless  gusts  in  hues  of  beauty.  Splendid  Autumn  ! 
Thy  every  feature  is  lovely  to  my  soul.  There  is  not  a  spray 
which  yields  its  tribute  to  the  wind,  that  hath  not  a  lesson  in  its 
shiver,  and  a  moral  in  its  sound.  When  the  '  sweet  South'  seeks 
in  vain  for  the  summer  flowers,  over  which  it  ranged  like  a  char 
tered  libertine,  rifling  their  cups,  and  betraying  their  soft  odors ; 
when  the  clouds  lie  in  long  red  bars  across  the  West,  and  the 
deep  tones  of  woods  and  waters  ring  through  the  clear  and 
searchable  atmosphere  —  then  is  the  Spirit  of  Autumn  my  monitor 
and  my  companion.  I  walk  over  the  sere  meadow  ;  I  see  the 
many-colored  fruits  piled  up  in  rich  profusion  under  the  generous 
orchard  trees ;  I  hear  the  pensive  and  farewell  chanting  of  the 
birds,  as  they  poise  their  pinions  for  milder  climes,  and  I  deem 
their  melody  a  summons  of  gratitude  —  a  call  for  thanksgiving. 
Then  Memory  is  busy ;  a  sweet  repose  falls  like  golden  light  on 
every  vision  of  the  past,  and  all  its  regrets  are  lost  in  that  en 
chanting  radiance.  This  is  Autumn,  to  me.  I  think  of  the  pure 
skies,  the  broad  lakes,  and  the  swelling  mountains,  on  which  the 
eyes  of  my  childhood  feasted,  until  I  become  again  a  resident 
among  them,  scaling  verdant  peaks,  and  looking  abroad  on  seas 
of  rainbow-foliage  tossing  to  the  breeze  ;  or  mayhap,  delec- 
tating  my  palate  with  gathered  chesnuts,  and  my  ear  with  their 
harmony,  as  they  pattered  on  the  leaves  from  the  lofty  burs : 
touching  perchance,  in  their  fall,  the  whirring  wing  of  the  par 
tridge,  as  it  wheeled  through  the  woods.  There  is  not  a  thought 
of  Autumn  that  is  sad  to  me.  I  love  it  for  itself  alone  :  '  scene 
of  ripe  fruits  and  mellow  fruitfulness  :'  of  calmness,  beauty,  and 
abundance  ;  it  has  voices,  and  sights,  and  influences,  that  I 


OLLAPODIANA.  65 

would  not  exchange  for  a  dukedom.  I  am  always  obliged  to 
shake  from  my  pen  a  few  drops  of  superfluous  enthusiasm,  in 
the  Autumn  time.  

I  WAS  sitting  yesterday,  looking  over  my  newspaper,  and 
thinking  of  other  times  —  to  which  direction  this  season  always 
bids  me  turn — when  I  fell  into  a  profound  meditation  on  the 
great  progress  and  power  of  those  pregnant  folios.  I  remember 
the  time  that  when  the  weekly  newsprint,  brought  to  '  our  village' 
by  the  post-rider,  came  to  hand,  I  would  pore  over  its  blue  and 
reeking  columns  with  a  degree  of  interest  that  nothing  else  could 
match.  Every  word  of  its  contents,  advertisements  and  all, 
would  be  devoured  at  a  sitting.  The  dailies  of  New- York  were 
smaller  than  the  country  weeklies  now,  and  issued,  perhaps,  in 
smaller  numbers.  No  crowds  of  boys  beset  the  wharves,  and  all 
public  places,  of  the  metropolis,  as  now,  with  such  vociferations 
as  these  :  '  Here  's  the  Courier  and  Enquirer  !  Here  's  the  Sun, 
Jeff'sonian,  Tra-a-nscript !  Here  's  the  Journal  of  Commerce  ! 
Yere  's  the  American  and  the  Post !  Yere  's  the  Star  with  the 
foreign  news  !  Yere  's  the  *  Old  Sarpent,'  and  the  Spirits-o'- 
Seventy-six,  and  the  Advertiser  !  Yere  's  the  Spirits-Times, 
and  the  Morning  Herald  !'  No- trifling  penny  won  a  little  world 
of  knowledge,  then.  How  changed  is  now  the  scene  !  He  who 
cannot  read  as  he  runs,  at  this  era,  must  indeed  be  a  wayfaring 
fool.  I  rejoice  to  see  this  glorious  influence  of  the  press  per 
vading  our  country.  While  it  continues,  we  can  never  be  other 
wise  than  free.  Guided,  as  it  mainly  is,  by  strength  and  vigor 
of  intellect  —  inspired  as  it  is,  with  the  fervor  of  free  bosoms  — 
its  course  is  onward,  and  its  power  irresistible.  An  unfettered 
press  is  the  glory  of  a  nation.  Here,  it  should  be  peculiarly 
free ;  else  it  cannot  echo  the  voice  of  the  people.  What  this 
people  yet  will  be,  in  morals,  in  political  importance,  and  in 
national  power,  depends  greatly  on  the  press.  Its  weight,  in  the 
broad  scale  of  good  and  evil,  is  beyond  the  patriot's  fear,  or  the 
enthusiast's  dream.  

RESPECTING  dreams,  I  would  say  a  word.  Surrounded  as 
we  are  with  mystery  —  with  our  yesterdays  in  the  grave,  and  our 
to-morrows  in  Eternity — what  is  a  greater  mystery  than  a  dream  ? 
It  comes  to  us  when  we  are,  as  it  were,  in  death ;  when  whole 
^cities  are  still ;  when  the  rich  and  poor,  the  rough  and  gentle, 
the  care-worn  and  the  careless,  lie  down  in  the  blessed  equality 
of  slumber,  and  wrap  around  them  the  mantle  of  repose.  How 
.sweet  must  dreams  be  to  the  captive !  Dreams  of  the  blue  sky, 

5 


66  OLLAPODIANA. 

the  shining  stars,  the  open  fields ;  the  moon,  like  a  golden  lamp,, 
rolling  through  the  dark  blue  depths  of  heaven  !  I  have  certainly 
had  visions  in  the  night-watches  which  have  delighted  me  for 
months  ;  flinging  about  my  daily  paths  a  glow  and  beauty  which 
tongue  cannot  utter,  nor  pen  portray ;  until  I  have  been  ready  to 
say  on  waking,  with  one  of  old,  '  Redde  mihi  compos  meos  floridos, 
columnam  auream,  assistentes  angclos  :'  Give  me  my  fields  again, 
my  most  delicious  fields,  my  pillar  of  a  glorious  light,  and  my 
assistant  angels ! 

Reader,  did  you  never  have  queer  dreams  ?  Had  you  ever  a 
vision  of  being  at  a  fashionable  party,  and  all  at  once  discover 
that  you  had  no  coat  on  ?  That  one  of  your  feet  was  a  broom, 
wherewith,  in  obedience  to  some  superior  mandate,  you  were 
engaged  in  both  dancing  and  sweeping  ?  I  wot  of  one,  who  has. 
It  is  hard  work  to  run  in  a  dream.  I  have  been  chased  by 
Indians  thus,  and  could  never  get  on.  Some  horrid  weight 
hangs  to  one's  feet ;  he  feels  the  breath  of  his  enemy  on  his 
shoulders  and  neck  —  but  it  seems  an  age  ere  he  is  overtaken. 
It  is  folly  to  say  that  it  is  not  unpleasant  to  be  killed  in  a  dream. 
I  have  laid  down  my  life  in  this  way,  an  hundred  times. 

One  curious  vision  I  remember,  in  my  boyish  days.  Me- 
thought  I  was  crossing  an  immense  abyss,  on  a  single  grape-viner 
with  Apollyon  for  a  pilot.  I  forget  his  appearance  exactly,  but 
it  was  hideous  in  the  extreme.  He  led  me  over  the  dark  and 
dismal  void,  until  I  had  reached  the  midway  part  of  the  vine, 
when  he  attempted  the  gymnastic  feat  of  throwing  me  off.  I 
caught  him  by  the  hair,  which  me-seemed  was  composed  of  red 
hot  wires,  very  fine,  and  with  a  giant's  strength  hurled  him  below. 
I  hear  yet  sometimes  the  booming  thunder  of  his  *  sail  broad- 
vans,'  as  he  fell.  Then,  methought  I  experienced  a  pair  of 
beautiful  wings,  and  sailed  away  upon  them  to  a  paradise  of  rest. 
I  have  done  many  valiant  things  in  dreams,  and  made  many 
valued  acquaintances.  In  them  I  have  held  large  discourse  with 
Shakspeare,  Milton,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Walter  Scott,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  other  worthies.  Then  my  travels  !  I  know 
not  where  I  have  not  been  in  my  visions.  My  last  tour  of  this 
sort  was  to  Jerusalem.  There  I  met  many  patriarchs  and 
prophets,  and  delivered  a  bitter  oration  to  Judas,  on  his  treach 
ery.  On  these  occasions,  I  have  always  said  to  myself,  *  Well, 
thank  Heaven !  this  is  no  dream.  I  have  dreamed  about  such 
things  heretofore,  but  this  is  reaV  In  this  style  I  have  visited 
Paris  and  London ;  have  wept  with  Josephine  at  Malmaison  ;, 
and,  as  aid  de  camp  to  Napoleon,  assisted  in  reviewing  his  troops 
in  the  Champ  de  Mars.  Heaven  only  knows  how  many  times  I 


OLLAPODIANA.  67 

have  dined  with  kings  and  princes,  from  Solomon  down  to  Wil 
liam  the  Fourth. 

There  is  nothing  so  glorious  as  water  in  a  dream !  With  a 
strange  green  light,  the  waves  arise  and  roll.  Speaking  in  a 
visionary  sense,  I  can  say  with  St.  Paul.  *  A  night  and  a  day 
have  I  been  in  the  deep.'  I  have  been  drowned  several  times  ; 
and  on  one  occasion,  went  across  the  Atlantic  in  a  chariot,  with 
Pharaoh  in  livery  for  a  driver.  Fantastical  thoughts,  like  those 
of  which  Irving  and  Hood  complain,  often  rise  in  thick-coming 
throngs  to  my  mind  ;  sometimes  laden  with  dolour,  and  at  others, 
full  of  amusement  and  edification. 

I  have  wept  in  dreams,  and  bitterly,  t<x).  Once  I  had  a 
vision,  that  two  dear  friends  had  gone  to/JTndia,  as  missionaries. 
I  followed  them,  through  dreadful  tempests,  across  the  ocean. 
We  approached  Calcutta ;  a  beautiful  vision  of  palaces  and  piles, 
surrounded  with  hills  of  wonderful  palm-trees,  whose  green  leaves 
displayed  around  their  borders  a  circle  of  glorious  and  pris 
matic  light.  I  touched  the  shore :  the  great  car  of  Juggernaut 
seemed  approaching,  and  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  the  idolaters, 
were  the  friends  I  sought.  They  had  been  converted  to  heathen 
ism.  Before  I  could  r<3ach  them,  they  plunged  themselves  be 
neath  the  car.  I  saw  them  crushed  by  the  sanguinary  wheels  ; 
their  blood  streamed  around  me  !  It  was  a  horrid  dream  ;  and 
when  I  awoke,  how  supremely  happy  did  I  arise,  to  thank  GOD 
it  was  '  but  a  cfream  !' 


a  friend — he  belongs  to  the  confraternity  of  ancient 
and  Aonorable  bachelors — who  is  wont  to  describe  a  most  pain- 
fu?  dream  which  he  encountered  in  his  thirtieth  year.  Before  I 
^ive  his  vision,  however,  I  will  describe  the  Visionary.  He  is 
now  about  two,  or,  *  by'r  Lady,  inclining  to  three  score  ;'  is  very- 
censorious,  and  declares  that  the  ladies  now-a-days  are  nothing, 
compared  with  those  who  flourished  when  '  we  young  fellows' 
delighted  society,  in  our  powdered  hair  and  graceful  queues.' 
He  says  that  people  have  much  degenerated  ;  and  still  avers  with 
pertinacious  impudence,  that  he  was  once,  and  that  not  long  ago, 
considered  the  Adonis  of  the  town.  Sad  alteration  !  I  scarcely 
know  what  emblem  would  now  represent  his  features.  His  face 
is  like  a  faded  apple,  and  his  eyes  twinkle  from  under  his  shaggy 
brows,  like  a  mastiff's.  He  says  a  flat  thing,  laughs  at  it  for 
some  ten  minutes,  and  then  swears  at  the  by-stander  who  does 
not  *  comprehend  the  joke.'  To  what  shall  I  liken  this  remnant 
of  the  past — this  Ancient  of  Days  ?  To  a  withered  shrub  ?— 


68  OLLAPODIANA. 

a  sapless,  hollow  bough?     No;   emblems  fail.     If  he  resembles 
anything,  he  is 

Most  like  to  carcass  perched  on  gallow-tree.' 

Well,  to  his  dream.  He  thought  he  was  young  again,  and  in 
the  midst  of  olden  society — the  gay  Lothario  of  his  time.  He 
danced,  and  *  shook  a  graceful  foot,'  with  many  a  damsel,  at  an 
evening  ball.  Encountering  one  who  filled  him  with  admiration, 
he  proposed  himself  to  her  at  once.  He  was  accepted.  A 
priest  was  present,  and  the  dance  was  exchanged — a  la  mode  de 
songe-creux — into  a  bridal  party.  The  Bachelor  was  married  : 
he  pressed  an  angel  to  his  bosom. 

i«  Months  rolled  by-— as  they  go  in  dreams — very  swiftly,  and 
the  honey-moon  was  ever.  My  friend's  angel  proved  a  tartar. 
They  had  words  —  and  from  words  (so  the  vision  ran)  they  came 
to  blows.  These  squabbles  were  renewed  daily.  At  last,  one 
day  at  breakfast,  the  unhappy  Benedick  determined  to  end  his 
troubles.  He  poisoned  his  coffee.,  and  drank  it  down.  A  dread 
ful  fever  seized  him  ;  he  groaned,  he  thirsted,  he  burned  with 
heat;  and  with  a  hideous  yell,  he  awoke ! — so  delighted  at  his 
celibacy,  that  he  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  in  the  darkness  of  his 
apartment,  watched  only  by  the  waning  moon  and  stars,  danced 
an  energetic  rigadoon. 

Now  this  was  a  dream  that  could  only  have  entered  the  head 
of  some  rusty  old  single  gentleman.  I  eschevr  his  scoundrel 
opinions  of  matrimony,  altogether.  It  has  been  called  a  lottery ; 
but  it  is  only  such  in  one  sense  ;  for  all  who  embark  in  it,  have 
a  full  and  fair  opportunity  to  judge  their  prizes  ;  a  probationary 
season,  which  affords  all  needful  scrutiny  of  disposition  and  char 
acter.  I  am  of  Milton  his  mind,  with  respect  of  marriage ;  H  is 
a  pleasing  and  consummate  ordinance,  and  when  thoughtfully  ea- 
tered  upon,  right  pleasant  to  the  participants  therein.  A  kind  of 
marriage  mania  has  broken  out  among  all  my  friends  ;  they  are 
dropping  away  one  by  one ;  and  all  of  them,  happy  fellows ! 
seem  to  say  by  their  looks  and  actions,  that  they  would  not  thank 
a  king  for  his  crown.  You  can't  get  them  to  take  a  glance  at  a 
picture  in  the  shop-windows  now,  as  you  are  going  to  dinner : 
they  must  hurry  home — '  there  all  their  treasures  be.'  A  sense 
of  loneliness  sometimes  arrests  my  spirit  as  I  survey  these  glori 
ous  companions  in  their  domestic  retreats.  I  have  seen  the  time, 
when 

*  I  would  not  my  unhousel'd,  free  condition 
Put  into  circumscription  and  confine, 
For  the  sea's  worth  :' 

but  that  time  is  not  remembered  with  pleasure,  nor  is  its  contin- 


OLLAPODIANA.  69 

uance  desirable.  .  Truly  saith  my  kind,  my  beloved  old  Jeremy 
Taylor  :  '  There  is  nothing  can  please  a  man  without  love  :  noth 
ing  but  that  can  sweeten  felicity  itself.  When  a  man  dwells  in 
love,  then  the  breasts  of  his  wife  are  as  the  droppings  upon  the 
hill  of  Hermon,  her  eyes  are  fair  as  the  light  of  heaven,  she  is  a 
fountain  sealed,  and  he  can  quench  his  thirst  and  ease  his  cares, 
and  lay  his  sorrows  down  upon  her  lap,  and  can  retire  home  as 
to  his  sanctuary  and  refectory,  and  his  gardens  of  sweetness  and 
chaste  refreshments.  No  man  can  tell  but  he  that  loves  his  chil 
dren,  how  many  delicious  accents  make  a  man's  heart  dance  in 
the  conversation  of  those  dear  pledges  ;  their  childishness,  their 
stammering,  their  little  angers,  their  innocence,  their  imperfec 
tions,  their  necessities,  are  so  many  little  emanations  of  joy  and 
comfort  to  him  that  delights  in  their  persons  and  society.  She 
that  is  loved  is  safe,  and  he  that  loves  is  joyful.1  Such  pictures  as 
these,  are  delightful  to  see.  A  parental  sort  of  feeling  crawls 
over  the  heart  of  the  bachelor  as  he  reads,  and  he  is  ready  to 
gird  himself  for  adventure,  and  to  say  with  the  lord  of  Beatrice, 
1  The  world  must  be  peopled  !' 

I  read  this  passage  the  other  day  to  a  casual  acquaintance,  and 

he  said,  profanely,  it  was  '  d d  nonsense  !'     But  then  he  is 

proverbial  for  the  extreme  smallness  of  his  soul.  He  is  one  of 
those  kind  of  varlets,  who  are  in  a  measure  '  upon  the  town ;' 
who  will  indulge  their  bibulous  propensities  at  the  expense  of 
any  and  everybody ;  akin  no  doubt  to  the  celebrated  Simpkins, 
the  eleemosynary  wine-bibber,  upon  whose  tomb-stone  the  fol 
lowing  epitaph  was  recorded,  as  if  from  the  hand  of  a  suffering 
friend  : 

«  What !  Simpkins  dead  !  It  cannot  be. 

Simpkins,  will  you  take  wine  with  me  ? 

No  answer — none?  What!  nothing  said? 

Won't  he  take  wine  ? — he  must  be  dead!' 

The  testimony  or  the  anathemas  of  such  a  fellow  can  be  nei 
ther  hurtful  nor  valuable.  He  hates  children,  too  :  says  he  had 
as  lief  see  the  devil.  Out  upon  the  wretch  !  If  ever  there  was 
a  positive  manifestation  of  the  divine  spirit  of  GOD,  it  is  the  clear 
eyes  and  brows  of  children.  Their  souls  are  new,  and  their  af 
fections  as  fresh  and  ductile  as  a  vine  in  spring.  And  how  they 
bound  and  glow,  with  the  spirit  of  existence  !  I  could  hang  the 
man  —  stickler  as  I  am  for  freedom  of  opinion — who  thinks 
otherwise.  If  there  be  anything  calculated  to  make  us  satisfied 
with  our  earthly  pilgrimage,  it  is  the  love  of  the  young,  and  the 
scenes  of  animation  which  they  display.  I  have  never  had  my 
head  examined  by  a  phrenologist ;  but  it  is  my  belief  that  the 


70  OLLAPODIANA. 

organ  of  Interestinthejoysandsorrowsofchildrenativeness  will  be 
found  there,  strongly  developed.  So  much  have  I  thought  on 
the  subject,  that  I  have  a  rough  draft  of  metre,  alluding  thereun 
to,  which  '  it  is  hoped  may  please.'  I  have  adopted  for  it  a 
plaintive  air,  now  much  in  vogue  in  London,  among  the  coster- 
mongers  and  sweeps,  and  in  which,  as  in  many  of  the  choruses 
extant,  there  is  a  large  amount  of  meaning.  What  a  world  of 
thought  is  hidden,  for  example,  in  those  magic  words,  '  ai,  ai, 
eu — ai}  ai,  euT  in  Zurich's  Waters!  I  have  seen  ladies  nod 
their  heads  over  pianos,  and  look  as  knowingly  when  they  repeat 
ed  these  cabalistic  monosyllables,  as  if  they  contained  explana 
tions  of  certain  symbols  in  the  Apocalypse.  But  to  the  metre. 
Stand  a  little  back,  Reader  — here  it  comes : 

THE  LIFE  OF  YOUTH. 

AIR  :    '  ALL    ROUND    MY    HAT.' 

THERE  is  a  time  when  light,  and  air,  and  flowers, 

Are  shining  brightly  whereso'er  we  tread  ; 
When,  from  the  passing  of  the  swift-wing'd  hours, 

An  atmosphere  of  love  and  peace  is  shed  ; 
When  hope  flits  near  us,  on  her  angel  wings, 
And  sweetly  to  the  heart  her  anthem  sings. 

Then  pleasant  transports  overcome  the  bosom, 
And  days  in  pictured  guise  go  beaming  by  ; 

A  softer  breath  exhaleth  from  the  blossom — 
A  purer  radiance  gilds  the  open  sky  : 

The  hues  of  heaven  are  poured  on  every  scene  — 

On  the  glad  waters,  and  the  fields  of  green. 

All  then  is  beauty ;  from  the  gay  clouds,  waving 
Whene'er  the  breeze  their  golden  skirts  may  stir, 

To  the  blue  streams  their  bloomy  borders  laving  — 
The  budding  orchard,  or  the  vernal  fir : 

A  look  of  gladness  beams  where'er  we  move, 

And  fills  the  dancing  heart  with  holy  love. 

With  love  for  Nature,  and  for  HIM  whose  power 
Glows  in  the  noontide,  or  the  blush  of  morn ; 

Whose  smile  the  waves  receive — the  tree,  the  flower — 
The  vine's  rich  tendrils,  and  the  ripening  corn  ; 

It  wakes  a  Sabbath  feeling  in  the  breast  — 

A  tranquil  sense  of  harmony  and  rest. 

This  is  the  Life  of  Youth  ! — and  oh,  how  fleeting 

The  glorious  splendors  of  its  morning  be  ! 
With  changeful  hues  the  wildered  fancy  cheating, 

As  moonlight  smiles  imprint  the  evening  sea; 
While  the  fair  sails  sweep  onward  in  their  pride, 
O'er  treacherous  waves  that  to  dim  whirlpools  glide. 


OLLAPODIANA.  71 

This  is  the  Life  of  Youth  !     Oh,  could  it  linger 

About  us  ever,  as  de  Leon  sought ; 
Nor  care,  nor  sorrow  with  effacing  finger, 

Destroy  the  magic  web  by  fancy  wrought, 
This  earth  I  could  not  then  call  stale  and  flat, 
Nor  the  dark  cypress  wreathe  '  all  round  my  hat  /' 


READER,  I  am  cut  short.  I  have  received  intimations  (accom- 
•panied  with  expressions  of  complimentary  and  profound  regret) 
that  the  space  which  I  expected  to  replenish  in  the  present  num 
ber,  has  been  unexpectedly  circumscribed  by  the  voluminous- 
ness  (unlooked-for)  of  other  matter.  Wherefore,  until  next  we 
meet,  I  say  to  you,  as  Wordsworth  said  to  the  companion  of  one 
whom  I  greatly  esteem  as  an  American  and  a  friend —  Vive  va- 
lete  ! 


-NUMBER   SEVEN. 

November,  1835. 

ONE  thing  is  certain.  There  is  an  influence  in  Autumn  which 
induces  a  most  oblivious  negligence  of  the  time  being,  which 
transfers  us  from  this  '  ignorant  present'  into  the  very  bowels  of 
fairy  land.  I  can  scantly  take  heart-a-grace  enough  to  deglute 
my  daily  provisions,  make  a  morning  call,  or  do  any  other  thing 
most  easy  to  be  done,  I  could  just  sit  down,  and  dream  of  the 
past  from  morn  till  dewy  eve.  Fancies,  thicker  than  the  multi 
tudinous  leaves  of  Vallombrosa,  beleague  my  soul,  and  I  am  led 
captive  at  their  will.  It  is  a  season  —  Autumn  is — wherein  to 
play  the  Looker  On, 

PURSUANT  to  this  predisposition,  I  was  recently  enacting  Spec 
tator  at  a  City  Election.  It  is  a  glorious  sight  to  see  the  People 
come  up  in  their. majesty  and  exercise  their  suffrages.  How  an 
imated  are  the  streets  at  night,  on  such  occasions  !  Hundreds 
of  paper  lanthorns  gleaming  around  the  polls  ;  transparencies 
shining  from  the  head-quarters  of  wards  and  parties,  and  glorious 
banners  waving  their  stars  and  stripes  in  the  gusty  sky,  over  the 
:  humming  multitude.  I  always  feel  proud  of  my  country  at  such 
times.  Surely  there  never  was  a  better  system  of  government 
adopted  by  man,  than  ours.  Liable  to  misuse  perhaps,  but  show 
me  a  nation  on  earth  so  essentially  free  as  the  American.  In 
truth,  we  are  become  *  rather  too  free ;'  we  make  bold  to  infract 
the  laws  somewhat  too  often.  But  where  is  the  people  that  do 
not  do  it  more  ? 


72  OLLAPODIANA. 

It  must  be  confessed,  though,  that  elections  in  the  country  are 
often  burlesque  and  bombastic  to  the  last  degree.  Undue  im 
portance  is  attached  to  small  matters,  little  characters  are  stupen 
dously  magnified,  and  little  events  elevated  into  marvels.  I  have 
before  me,  for  example,  a  late  number  of  the  Logtown  Universal 
Advertiser  and  Entire-Swine  Despatch.  It  presents  the  details 
of  an  unimportant  inspectors'  election,  something  as  follows : 

'VICTORY!— VICTORY!— GLORIOUS    VICTORY! 

*  WE  hasten  to  lay  before  our  numerous  readers,  and  the  country  at  large, 
the  thrilling  events  by  which  yesterday  was  signalized  in  the  annals  of  Log- 
town.     The  day  opened  big  with  the  fate  of  principles  and  men.     As  the 
morn  advanced,  the  throngs  of  golden  clouds  which  shone  in  the  East  seem 
ed  to  cast  a  smile  of  welcome,  gorgeous  and  indescribable,  o'er  a  long  line 
of  pedestrian  voters,  some  in  one-horse  wagons,  and  all  of  them  residing 
near  our  village,  wending  to  the  contest.     Heaven  looked  on  with  interest 
and  expectancy.     Proud  was  the  issue,  and  the  result  also,  as  the  sequel 
will  show.     At  last,  the  auspicious  time  arrived.     The  contest  was  begun — 
the  onslaught  was  made.     The  conclusion  was,  that  the  immense  eagle  of 
victory  sits  on  our  banners,  a-flopping  her  wide  spread  opinions,  to  the  con 
fusion  and  dismay  of  the  vile  horde  of  foul  and  corrupt  miscreants,  traitors 
to  their  country,  and  GoD-forsaken  wretches,  who   attempted  to  stop  the 
flight  of  the   ahead-going  bird.     Their  hopes  are  prostrated  !     There  is 
every  certainty  that  our  townsman,  John  Jones  Smith,  Jr.,  Esq.,  will  go  to 
the  Legislature ;  and  we  can,  with  swelling  bosoms,  fearlessly  assure  the 
nation  at  large,  and  the  friends  of  liberty  everywhere,  that  Logtown  is  re 
generated,  and  disenthralled —  erect,  and  sound  to  the  core  !     Henceforth  let 
her  be  set  down  as  one  of  the  most  Spartan  communities  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.     *  Liberty  or  death  /'  was  her  war-cry  :  it  prevailed,  and  she  has  con 
quered  ! 

*  Of  course,  where  such  immense  interests  of  a  faction  were  at  stake,  bad 
passions  will  have  play.     We  regret  to  say  that  several  fights   occurred, 
while  the  two  parties  were  counting  off.     One  loathsome  ragamuffin,  with  a 
face  black  with  anger  and  dirt,  attempted  but  too  successfully  to  pull  the 
nose  of  our  worthy  magistrate  and  fellow-townsman,  Plutarch  Shaw,  while 
in  the  agreeable  and  inoffensive  act  of  taking  a  pint  of  beer — •  thinking  no 
danger,  for  he  had  no  guilt.'     Blood  flowed  in  torrents,  but  the  estimable 
Shaw  disdained  to  retaliate  upon  his  opponent,  who  repaid  his  forbearance 
•with  a  remark  unparalleled  for  its  ingratitude :  namely,  that  '  Shaw  was  too 
drunk  to  lift  his  fist !'     We  forbear  comment  on  such  atrocious  conduct. 
It  is  sufficient  to  record  the  fact — thereby  holding  up  the  offender  to  the 
scorn  of  the  world,     Contempt,  indeed,  is  a  powerful  weapon.     We  had 
occasion,  ourself,  to  use  it  yesterday.     A  miscreant,  totally  unbeknown  ta 
us,  stopped  us  by  the  door  of  a  tavern,  where  we  had  made  ourself  the  re 
cipient  of  a  few  oysters,  and  with  his  arms  akimbo,  inquired :  *  Are  you  the 
man  as  edits  the  Advertiser  and  Entire-Swine  Despatch  ?'     We  answered 
in  the  negative,  *  yes,  that  we  were.'     '  Well,'  said  the  villain,  with  a  look 
of  unutterable  impudence,  *  I  am  glad  I  have  got  a  sight  of  you.     I  have 
been  a-wanting  sometime  to  see  the  man  as  I  considers  the  greatest  rascal 
and  the  barefacetest  liar  in  the  district !' 

'  Our  reply  was  calm  and  dignified.  We  answered,  by  way  of  response, 
that  we  were  glad  he  was  gratified  ;  and  expressed  a  hope  that,  having  seen 
•what  he  wished,  he  would  pass  on.  Our  reply  created  much  pleasant  laugh 
ter  at  the  time ;  though  a  few  heated  partisans  of  the  opposite  party  at- 


OLLAPODIANA.  73 

tempted  to  hoot  and  hiss  us.  Their  malignant  souls  could  not  brook  our 
magnanimity,  and  consequent  safety  of  person.  Poor,  vile,  contemptible 
assassins — from  the  bottom  of  our  heart,  how  we  do  despise  them! 

4  P.  S.  Since  writing  the  above,  we  have  found  reason  to  believe  that  the 
wretch  who  was  led  to  address  us  by  the  tavern,  was  urged  on  by  the  up 
start  editor  of  the  Logtown  General  Observer  and  Deluge  of  Reform.  We 
do  not  doubt  it.  He  is  a  paltry,  low,  we  had  almost  said  nasty,  individual, 
and  would  feel  honored  by  our  scorn.  Nothing  but  an  insuperable  objection 
to  low  epithets,  could  prevent  us  from  speaking  of  this  felon  and  caitiff  as 
he  deserves.  But  we  forbear.  Argument,  not  personality,  is  our  battle-axe. 
We  leave  the  conductor  of  the  Deluge  to  wallow  in  the  rottenness  of  that 
moral  leprosy  which  has  covered  him  all  over  as  with  a  garment.  He  is  an 
utmost  wretch  —  a  multitudinous  puppy  —  perfectly  ostensible  in  character, 
and  venial  in  deportment,  lacking  not  urbanity  merely,  but  politeness  like 
wise.  With  these  sentiments  we  leave  him  to  the  vulture-fangs  of  his  own 
filthy  conscience.  We  have  treated  him  tenderly  in  this  instance — but  let 
him  beware !  One  more  provocation,  and  we  will  gibbet  him  before  a  dis 
gusted  world,  in  terms  which  shall  be  remembered.  Verbal  Sap,  as  Ho 
mer  says  —  'a  word  is  a  sufficiency  '  —  and  we  have  done.' 

IT  was  glorious  sport  for  me,  in  the  '  post  prandial  hours '  of 
my  school  days,  when  election  time  came.  The  student  loves 
the  season,  for  he  feels  the  very  spirit  of  liberty  which  the  elec 
tions  perpetuate  and  display.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  partisans,  af 
ter  election  is  over,  mingling  again  together  in  unity  and  friend 
ship.  Half  the  speeches  in  political  meetings  are  spoken  for 
effect,  and  words  are  used  to  express  ten  times  more  than  they 
mean.  '  Now,  here  is  a  point,'  said  a  young  friend  of  mine,  as 
he  showed  me  some  loose  notes  of  a  ward-meeting  address, 
1  here's  a  place  where  I  mean  to  get  up  a  small  lot  of  indigna 
tion  ;  here  I  will  make  a  touching  appeal  to  patriotism,  our  fore 
father's  rights  in  jeopardy,  and  so  forth.  There  are  several  fine 
fellows  on  the  opposition  ticket ;  I  have  to  dine  with  a  couple  of 
them  to-morrow ;  but  I  shall  call  them  to-night,  politically,  all 
the  varlets,  traitors,  and  rascals,  that  I  can  lay  my  tongue  to  : 
and  so  will  they  me.  But  we  all  know  what  it  amounts  to  — -just 
nothing,  as  far  as  our  social  positions  are  concerned.  Do  what 
we  will,  in  our  self-government,  we  must  be  a  happy  people : 
but  I  like  the  excitement.' 


How  much  by  the  way,  there  is  in  that  one  word,  excitement ! 
Of  how  many  mad  pranks  and  boyish  adventures  it  is  the  source 
and  soul !  I  once  belonged  to  a  fraternity  of  students  y'clept 
*  The  Snap-Dragon  Club.''  I  was  founded  by  one  Harry  Wil- 
ford,  a  harum-scarum  youth  as  ever  thumbed  Horace,  or  medi 
tated  deviltries  over  the  eloquent  page  of  Cicero.  Beshrew  him 
for  a  mad  wag  !  The  list  of  the  S.  D.  Society  included  all  the 
clever  fellows  in  the  Seminary  where  it  was  formed  ;  and  the  con* 


74  OLLAPODIANA. 

stitution  required  that  every  member  should  consent  to  obey  the 
commands  of  the  President  (in  common  with  the  whole  corps), 
whatever  they  might  be !  Wilford  was  President :  and  truly  he 
was  a  hard  one.  Sometimes  he  would  issue  orders  by  his  Sec 
retary  to  the  Club,  to  resort  to  some  rendezvous  several  miles 
from  town,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  No  one  disobeyed. 
How  many  times  has  he  selected  some  cloudy,  stormy  autumn 
night,  and  issued  his  mandate  for  a  convention  of  the  Club, 
without  umbrellas,  in  some  open  field,  a  league  off,  to  hear  one 
of  the  members,  chosen  by  himself,  sing  a  song  !  It  was  a  cu 
rious,  eccentric  band  as  ever  leagued  together  ;  and  I  cannot  re 
member  one  instance  of  infracted  orders.  rWe  were  situated 
somewhere  near  the  centre  of  Western  New  York,  distant  about 
eight  miles  from  the  celebrated  Cayuga  Lake  and  Bridge  ;  and 
not  one  romantic  dell,  or  ridge,  or  stream,  for  ten  miles  round, 
remained  unvisited  by  the  Club.  The  President  generally  per 
mitted  us  to  rest  in  the  winter  season ;  for  in  that  quarter  the 
breath  of  old  Hyem  is  like  a  blast  from  the  glaciers.  What  was 
our  astonishment,  then,  on  a  cold  morning  in  February,  18 — , 
on  reading  the  following  Dog-Latin  notice  in  the  village  news 
paper  : 

'SYMPOSIUM   RUMPO-DRACONIS: 

Congregere  in  Pons  Cayuguum,  Februarius  Sexdecim,  nox  media,  pro 
jocus  et  exercitatio,  et  animi  relaxatio. 

(Op3  OBJECT.  —  Elevation  of  the  Ancient  Henry. 

HY.  WILFORD,  Presses, 
fel.  15  It.* 
N.  B.  Preliminary  Rendezvous.     H.  No.  3.     R.  No.  4.' 

This  notice  —  well  understood  by  the  initiated  —  created  great 
sensation  in  the  club.  We  huddled  together,  after  evening 
prayers  in  the  chapel,  at  Wilford's  room  in  the  third  Hall,  Num 
ber  Four. 

*  Gentlemen,'  said  Harry,  *  you  are  required  to-night  to  do  a 
signal  and  singular  duty.  The  Club  must  be  at  Cayuga  bridge 
at  twelve,  precisely.  Every  member  is  required  to  transport 
thither,  in  his  hat,  six  crackers  and  one  dried  herring.  The 
pocket  of  every  brother  must  contain  the  pecuniary  sum  of  one 
dollar.  The  design  of  the  convocation  is  expressed  in  the 
notice.' 

4  But,  Mr.  President,'  said  a  young  member,  '  We  don't  know 
what  it  means.  What  does  it  say  we  must  do  ?  What  are  we 
to  elevate  T 

1  Sit  down,  Sir  !'  said  Wilford,  imperatively  :  '  your  education, 
as  a  brother  of  the  Snap-Dragons,  has  been  neglected.  The 


OLLAPODIANA.  75 

sentence  to  which  you  refer,  is  symbolically,  or  rather  synonymi- 
cally,  expressed  and  put.  It  means  that  the  object  of  our  meet 
ing  is  —  to  raise  the  old  Harry  !  We  are  going  to  have  a  scrape.' 
The  explanation  was  voted  satisfactory,  and  at  the  hour  of 
nine  we  sat  off,  nineteen  students,  all  in  a  body.  Oh,  what  a 
bitter  cold  night  it  was  !  Not  one  of  the  party  reached  the  ap 
pointed  place  without  frozen  ears  and  toes.  But  there  was  no 
flinching  ;  every  man  stood  his  ground  :  and  at  the  witching  hour 
of  midnight,  fortified  with  punch,  crackers,  and  the  individual 
herring,  we  all  stood  on  the  middle  of  the  bridge.  Boreas  ! 
how  the  air  swept  down  the  lake,  over  the  thick-ribbed  ice ! 
Here  Wilford  addressed  us,  in  beautiful  language,  of  which  he 
was  a  perfect  master  ;  thanked  us  for  our  crucifixion  of  selfish 
ness  for  the  ends  of  the  Club  ;  expatiated  upon  the  benefits  of 
resolution  and  perseverance  ;  and  after  a  quotation  of  Ossian's 
Address  to  the  Moon,  ended  with  the  following : 

*  Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky ! 
Thou  canst  not  bite  so  nigh, 

As  benefits  forgot ; 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude  — 
Although  the  skies  thou  warp, 
Thou  art  not  half  so  sharp, 
As  man's  ingratitude  !' 

This  quotation  was  the  finale.  We  reached  home  somewhere 
in  the  vicinity  of  day-break,  a  weary  set  of  wretches,  and  crawled 
to  our  beds,  to  enjoy  the  rich  luxury  of  sleep,  until  the  tintin- 
nabulary  announcement  of  nine,  from  the  chapel  bell. 

Oh  golden  days  of  keen,  but  objectless  adventure  !  — when  we 
attached  importance  to  every  little  achievement ;  when  the  snowy 
expanse  of  landscape  shot  past  us  like  a  dream,  from  the  loaded 
sleigh,  or  the  springing  pung ;  when  there  was  beauty  every 
where,  and  in  every  thing ;  brown  woods,  and  frozen  streams, 
or  the  big  lakes,  where  we  wheeled  on  glistering  heel  !  Days 
of  excitement,  of  pride,  of  tumultuous  thoughts,  of  deep  affec 
tions,  of  burning  ambition  —  whither  have  ye  flown!  Psha  ! 
I  am  becoming  sentimental. 

WELL  —  Harry  Wilford  after  this  gave  the  Club  a  respite, 
until  the  next  Spring,  when  a  camp-meeting  occurred  at  a  place 
about  sixteen  miles  distant  from  our  Seminary.  All  was  bustle 
and  confusion  in  the  village  ;  every  body  was  going,  and  Harry's 
head  conceived  a  luminous  idea.  He  issued  a  notice  that  the 
Club  should  convene  on  the  camp  ground  at  nine  P.  M.  on  Sun 
day  evening.  The  notice,  which  was  distributed  thoroughly 


76  OLLAPODIANA. 

among  the  members,  concluded  with  the  following  ominous  line : 
*  From  the  President,  who  will  precede  the  Club,  preaching, 
from  the  pulpit,  may  be  expected.' 

Every  one  was  astonished  ;  expectation  was  on  tiptoe ;  but 
mum  was  the  word.  Measures  were  adopted  for  the  procurement 
of  a  conveyance,  but  not  one  was  to  be  had  in  the  town.  At 
last  an  old  fellow,  who  brought  turnips  and  cabbages  to  market, 
and  lived  a  mile  or  two  from  the  village,  was  prevailed  upon  to 
oblige  us  for  a  liberal  compensation,  with  his  cart,  two  venerable 
mares,  and  a  couple  of  unbroken  colts.  These  were  brought 
together  in  double  tandem,  the  maternal  cattle  acting  as  leaders. 
We  started  at  the  sunset  of  a  beautiful  day  ;  but  Phcebus  and 
Phaeton  !  what  a  figure  we  cut !  The  old  turnip-cart  creaked 
like  a  gibbet ;  and  though  the  colts  were  well  enough,  yet  their 
parental  precedents  might  have  reminded  one  of  the  animals 
mentioned  by  the  quaint  old  Peter  Heylin,  in  his  *  Compleate 
Uoyauge  thorough  France  :'  '  As  lean  were  they  as  Envie  is  in 
the  Poet  —  macies  in  corpora  lota  being  most  true  of  them. 
Neither  were  they  not  only  lean  enough  to  have  their  ribbes  num- 
bred,  but  the  very  spurs  had  made  such  casements  thorough  their 
skinnes,  that  it  had  been  no  great  dificultie  for  to  have  surveyed 
their  entrails.  A  straunge  kynde  of  catel  in  mine  opinion,  and 
such  as  had  neither  flesh  on  their  bones,  nor  skinne  on  their  flesh, 
nor  hair  on  their  skinne.  All  the  neighing  we  cold  heare  from 
the  proudest  of  them  was  onely  an  old  dry  cougph,  which  I  'le 
assure  you  did  much  comfort  me  ;  for  by  that  noise  I  first  learned 
there  was  life  in  them.' 

We  reached  the  camp-ground  in  due  time,  fagged  and  jaded. 
But  the  excitement  of  the  scene  put  all  our  weariness  to  flight. 
When  we  entered  the  hedged  area  in  the  wilderness,  and  saw 
the  assembled  thousands  in  a  waving  mass  beneath  the  torch- 
disclosed  foliage  of  innumerous  boughs,  we  could  scarcely  con 
tain  ourselves  for  admiration.  As  we  were  entering,  we  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Harry  Wilford.  He  was  presenting  a  letter  to  a 
clergyman  in  a  corner  of  the  camp-ground.  We  were  marvel 
ling  what  that  could  mean,  when  singing  commenced.  How 
sweetly  it  fell  on  my  ear  !  Every  leaf  that  trembled  to  the 
breeze,  seemed  instinct  with  holy  melody.  There  is  nothing  so 
heavenly  and  subduing,  as  the  full-volumed  gush  of  harmony 
which  rises  like  incense  from  the  lips  of  a  primitive,  sensitive 
congregation,  chanting  *  with  spirit  and  understanding,'  in  GOD'S 
first  temple,  the  solemn  forest.  I  felt  overpowered. 

After  singing,  there  was  a  prayer  ;  and  then  a  solemn-visaged 
man  of  GOD  arose  to  announce  that  a  young  brother,  in  full 


OLLAPODIANA.  77 

standing  in  a  distant  Conference,  had  been  warmly  introduced  to 
him  by  letter,  and  would  deliver  his  message.  *  Brother  Wil- 
kins,'  he  said,  *  I  leave  this  flock  in  the  wilderness  to  receive  the 
manna  of  your  ministrations.' 

The  young  brother  arose.  It  was  Harry  Wilford!  His 
mouth  was  pursed  up  with  an  aspect  like  the  aperture  of  a 
lady's  reticule  ;  his  profusion  of  glowing  brown  locks  had  been 
tallowed  down  over  his  handsome  forehead,  with  a  most  demure 
expression,  and  those  mischievous  eyes  of  his  were  chastened  to 
a  glance  of  peculiar  sobriety.  A  benignant  smile  played  about 
his  finely-chiselled  mouth,  so  faint,  indeed,  that  it  scarcely  seemed 
a  smile  ;  and  he  had  begirt  himself  in  a  coat  '  of  formal  cut,'  with 
a  *  stand-up'  collar,  which,  as  I  discovered  at  a  glance,  belonged 
to  a  lank,  ungainly  fellow  who  swept  the  halls  of  our  little  col 
lege,  and  rejoiced  in  the  soubriquet,  *  Professor  of  Dust  and  Ashes.' 

I  caught  Wilford's  eye  twice,  before  he  began  his  exhorta 
tion  ;  and  there  was  a  lurking  deviltry  in  the  expression,  as  if  it 
said :  *  Keep  your  gaze  on  me,  boys ;  I  'm  doing  well ;  don't 
disconcert  me.' 

He  selected  his  text  from  Acts  xxvi.  29  :  c  And  Paul  said,  I 
would  to  GOD,  that  not  only  thou,  but  also  all  that  hear  me  this 
day,  were  both  almost  and  altogether  such  as  I  am,  except  these 
bonds  ;'  and  never  did  I  hear  a  more  eloquent  sermon.  He  ran 
rapidly  through  the  history  of  Paul ;  he  touched  with  impas 
sioned  fervor  upon  the  lofty  spirit  with  which  he  went  bound  in 
the  spirit  unto  Jerusalem,  and  gave  with  pathetic  enthusiasm,  the 
outline  picture  of  his  arraignment  before  Festus.  '  Mark,  my 
beloved  brethren  and  sisters,'  said  he,  '  the  powerful  contrast  be 
tween  the  pride  of  sin,  and  the  unadorned  glory  of  the  Chris 
tian  !  Behold  the  meek  Apostle,  standing  before  the  imperial 
Festus  and  Agrippa,  who  with  Bernice  his  wife  had  come  with 
great  pomp,  accompanied  by  the  chief  captains  and  principal  men 
of  the  city — brought  forth  by  commandment  —  hindered  with 
bonds,  before  princes  and  potentates,  in  gold  and  purple  !  He 
lifts  up  his  voice  ;  the  trembling  spirit-tones  ring  through  the  vast 
apartment  where  he  stands  ;  they  thunder  at  the  door  of  every 
heart ;  they  bring  the  deluge  of  sensibility  to  many  a  cheek. 
The  warm  lip  of  woman  quivers  ;  her  bright  orbs  grow  dim  with 
emotion  ;  the  silvered  head  sinks  thoughtfully  upon  the  breast  of 
age  ;  a  Sabbath  holiness  lingers  around ;  and  as  the  travel-worn 
apostle  speaketh  on,  the  bosoms  that  surround  him,  thrill  to  the 
movement  of  his  tongue.  As  he  proceeds,  he  kindles  ;  he  seems 
to  rise  above  the  wall  of  dust  that  circumscribes  his  spirit ;  his 
-corruption  seems  to  put  on  incorruption  ;  his  mortal  form  seems 


78  OLLAPODIANA. 

to  expand  into  the  bright  dimensions  of  immortality.  The  voice 
of  inspiration  trembles  around  ;  the  words  of  grace  fall  like  good 
seed,  broad-cast  among  the  multitude  ;  and  as  the  prisoner  in  his 
bonds  pleads  the  cause  of  love,  and  truth,  and  GOD,  the  agitated 
Festus,  shrinking  from  the  tremendous  energy  of  his  eloquence, 
exclaims,  '  Thou  art  beside  thyself?  But  with  what  firm  benev 
olence  and  kindly  meekness  is  his  insult  answered  !  How  calmly 
is  it  denied  !  And  with  what  yearning  tenderness  does  the  Pil 
grim  and  Soldier  of  the  Cross  invoke  for  his  judge  all  the  bles 
sings  that  filled  his  own  soul — *  except  his  bonds  !'  Wondrous 
benignity — fond  outpouring  of  a  spirit  rapt  and  overflowing  with 
the  fulness  of  GOD  !  Who  would  not  rather  journey  with  the 
saint  in  his  pilgrim-sandals  from  prison  to  prison,  from  peril  to 
peril,  from  stripes  to  shipwreck,  than  to  dwell  in  the  tents  of  sin 
ful  magnificence,  or  abide  in  the  ephemeral  tabernacles  of  lux 
ury — to  wield  the  sceptre  of  kings,  or  hold  the  reins  of  empires  !* 
Here  Wilford's  cheek  flushed,  and  his  eye  sparkled  with  enthu 
siasm.  He  saw  by  the  uplifted  hands,  he  heard  by  the  groans 
and  shouts  around  him,  that  his  discourse  was  taking  effect,  and 
like  an  actor,  excited  with  applause,  he  swept  onward  in  his 
speech  :  *  Oh,  my  friends  !  let  not  his  great  example  be  lost  upon 
you.  Follow  in  his  footsteps  ;  walk  even  as  he  walked  ;  deny 
ing  ungodliness,  and  crucifying  the  flesh,  with  its  affections  and 
lusts ;  so  that  at  the  last,  ye  may  shine  in  ga-loh-rah !  Mark 
what  I  tell  ye  !  I  may  be  unworthy  ;  your  preacher  may  be  sin 
ful,  ignorant,  and  imperfect ;  but  ye  must  be  watchful,  prayerful, 
and  steadfast :  then  shall  ye  shine  at  the  last  as  the  stars  in  the 
firmament,  for  ever  and  ever.  Then,  when  the  sun  himself  shall 
grow  dim  with  years  ;  when  his  yellow  hair  shall  no  longer  float 
on  the  Eastern  mountains,  or  his  golden  banners  tremble  at  the 
gates  of  the  West ;  when  the  ocean  shrinks  to  its  final  ebb,  and 
the  mountains  themselves  decay  with  age,  then  shall  ye  stray 
amid  the  blissful  fields  of  Paradise,  enjoying  pinultimately — mind 
I  say  ^-nultimately — those  raptures  of  which,  in  this  dull  vale 
of  misery,  we  have  nor  sign  nor  symbol.' 

Here  Wilford  lowered  his  voice,  and  ended  his  discourse  with 
a  beautiful  allusion  to  the  scene  around  him.  He  was  skilled  in 
camp-meeting  psalmody,  and  with  his  sweet  voice  'raised'  a 
tune,  and  led  the  singers  in  a  hymn  whose  simple  melody  yet 
haunts  my  ear. 

When  the  hymn  was  finished,  it  was  followed  by  an  '  exhor 
tation'  from  some  Western  Brother,  who  had  strayed  into  the 
Conference  on  a  mission  for  supplies.  His  address  was  the 
strangest  compound  of  pathos  and  bathos  that  I  have  ever  heard. 


OLLAPODIANA.  79 

Wilford,  while  he  spoke,  sat  on  the  seat  behind  him,  and  I  ob 
served  that  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  he  could  keep  his 
countenance.  The  Preacher  discussed  the  text  of  the  good 
Samaritan,  illustrating  therefrom  the  great  benefits  of  kindness 
and  charity.  But  his  discourse  had  no  more  connection  with  the 
text,  than  it  had  with  the  science  of  algebra.  He  talked  of 
every  thing  —  and  oh,  Santa  Maria  !  what  grammar  he  did  use, 
to  be  sure!  '  Them  kind  of  characters,'  said  he — speaking  of 
the  selfish  and  avaricious  — '  is  not  fit  for  to  live,  nor  for  to  die. 
They  hasn't  no  bowels,  no  more  than  a  statute.  Poor  deluded 
souls  !  they  go  through  the  world,  without  doing  no  good  to  no 
body  ;  and  when  they  die,  they  go  to  their  own  place.  Hence 
we  view,  that  when  the  final  judgment  comes,  they  will  meet  with 
dreadful  punishments.  •  How  awful  will  be  that  there  scene ! 
Then,  all  at  onst,  they  will  obsarve  the  heavens  a-darkening,  the 
seas  a-roaring,  the  tombs  a-bustin',  the  mountains  a-melting,  and 
the  cattle  and  sheep  straddling  about  to  keep  their  places  !' 

He  went  on  in  this  strain,  until  his  voice  became  thick  and 
husky,  and  he  complained  that '  his  lungs  was  a-givin'  in.'  Here 
his  tones  sunk  to  a  low  and  plaintive  pitch  ;  and  he  closed  with 
sentences  that  fell  like  music  upon  my  ear,  and  brought  a  flood 
of  tears  to  my  eyes.  He  spoke  of  the  dangers  that  had  beset 
him  in  the  far  West ;  and  of  the  benignity  of  that  Power  which 
had  sustained  him  through  every  trial.  '  Often,'  he  said,  '  how 
often,  have  I  swum  my  horse  across  midnight  rivers,  carrying 
the  glad  tidings  of  salvation  to  settlements  in  the  wilderness,  when 
the  fearful  cry  of  wolves  rung  in  my  ear,  and  the  watch-fires  of 
the  hostile  Indians  blazed  beneath  the  giant  pines  !  How  often 
have  I  wandered  through  the  tall  grass  of  the  Prairies,  day  after 
day,  with  my  over-coat  for  my  evening  pillow,  and  the  star-gem 
med  vault  of  heaven  for  the  curtains  of  my  rest !  I  was  sad, 
but  I  was  comforted ;  I  was  thirsty,  but  my  spirit  had  refresh 
ment  ;  I  was  weary,  but  the  arm  of  Omnipotence  sustained  my 
fainting  footsteps,  and  I  laid  my  head  upon  the  bosom  of  peace. 
I  was  far  from  man — in  silence — alone  ;  yet  not  alone,  for  my 
GOD  was  with  me  !' 

Words  could  not  describe  the  thrilling  effect  of  this  simple  yet 
sublime  conclusion.  It  banished  completely  from  my  mind  the 
preceding  absurdities  of  imagery  in  which  the  preacher  had  in 
dulged,  and  left  me  filled  with  emotion.  I  did  not  mean  to  be 
impious,  as  I  made  the  observation,  but  I  did  not  reflect  that  it 
might  apply  to  both  ends  of  his  sermon,  when  I  said,  as  I  de 
parted  with  my  ftftow  Snap-Dragons,  *  Never  man  spake  like 
this  man.' 


80  OLLAPODIANA. 

About  an  hour  after  the  conclusion  of  his  maiden  sermon, 
Wilford  met  the  club,  entire,  as  agreed  upon,  '  at  the  first  tavern 
from  the  ground.'  He  had  on  an  enormous  pair  of  false  whis 
kers  ;  his  hair  was  brushed  up  in  his  usual  free,  airy  style  ;  his 
coat  had  been  changed,  and  his  hat  placed  jauntily  on  one  side. 
I  never  saw  a  fellow  so  full  of  spirit.  We  had  a  fine  supper, 
and  Harry  staid  longer  than  all.  When  I  left,  he  was  saying  to 
the  landlord:  *  Come,  show  your  charge  for  the  company; 
what 's  to  pay  ?  Bring  in  your  bill,  as  the  honey-suckle  said  to 
the  humming-bird.' 

Poor  Harry  !  His  mad-cap  career,  as  a  mad-cap,  was  short. 
He  is  now  a  devoted  missionary  of  the  church,  at  a  far  western  sta 
tion  ;  and  I  recently  heard  an  old  lady  who  knows  him  there,  say 
that '  A  piouser  creeter,  nor  a  devouter,  never  was  seen,  nowhere  !' 

TALKING  of  old  women,  makes  me  think  of  young  ones.  I 
see  by  an  article  in  one  of  the  late  English  magazines,  that  the 
palm  of  superior  beauty  is  frankly  awarded  to  the  ladies  of  the 
United  States.  This  is  just.  Who  can  walk  through  the  streets 
of  any  of  our  principal  cities — New- York  or  Philadelphia  for 
instance — never  forgetting  Baltimore — without  being  struck  and 
smitten  with  the  rare  loveliness  of  the  damsels  therein  ?  It  is 
like  walking  through  a  splendid  gallery  of  animated  pictures. 
How  many  fairy  forms,  and  *  wreathed  smiles,'  and  dove-like 
eyes  !  I  care  not  if  the  observer  of  these  be  an  elder  brother  of 
Methusalem  — he  must  be  moved — he  must  admire  :  for 

'  Who  can  curiously  behold 

The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  Beauty's  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ?' 

But  there  is  a  pestilent  pack  of  fellows  in  New- York,  who  are 
potent  wine-bibbers  and  fortune-hunters,  that  spend  their  days 
and  nights  in  scoundrclizing,  to  use  a  term  of  their  own.  A 
member  of  this  clan  will  pay  his  devoirs  to  a  lady,  giving  her 
every  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  serious  in  his  intentions,  and 
overflowing  with  affection,  when  he  is  only  worming  from  her  a 
few  secrets  respecting  her  goods  and  chattels,  present  and  pros 
pective.  These  varlets  have  a  cabalistic  language  of  their  own, 
of  which  I  will  endeavor  to  give  the  reader  an  idea.  I  overheard 
a  pair  of  them  conversing  not  long  ago  in  Broadway,  and  having 
previously  acquired  the  key  to  their  dialect,  I  understood  it 
perfectly. 

4  Well,  Bob,'  said  one,  '  were  you  at  Mia^i 's  soiree  last 

night  ?  It  was  expected  to  be  superb.' 


OLLAPODIANA.  81 

'  Yes,  I  was,  Tom  ;  but  my  good  fellow,  it  was  scarce  an  ob 
ject.  It  was  hardly  worth  the  perfume  that  I  unctuated  my 
whiskers  withal.  There  were  several  sweet,  virtuous  young 
ladies  there ;  modest,  exemplary,  lovely.  But  they  were  some 
engaged,  and  the  rest  were  *  minus  the  brads1 — paupers,  all.' 

*  But  Miss  Van  Blank  was  there,  wasn't  she  ?  If  so,  I  say 
there  was  Heaven.  Which  way  she  turns  is  paradise,  and  her 
smile  would  improve  the  sunshine  in  Eden.  There  is  retiring, 
bashful,  rose-like  loveliness  for  you.' 

'  Granted,  Tom — she  was  there  —  and  all  you  say  is  true  : 
but  my  dear  boy,  she  has  no  moral  character.  Her  reputation 
is  bad.  Now  who  do  you  think  was  the  very  nucleus  of  the 

company  ?  Why,  that  rich  and  ugly  Miss .  They  say  she 

is  improving,  every  year,  and  egad,  I  think  so.  She  has  per 
sons  enough  in  her  employ,  amending  her  face  and  frame,  to 
beautify  the  Witch  of  Endor.  Look  at  her  hand  ;  why  it  is  as 
large  as  the  hand  of  Providence.  She  has  got  a  better  smile 
than  she  was  wont  to  have — and  I  know  who  sold  it  to  her!  I 
saw  that  same  smile  last  year,  in  a  glass  case,  at  the  exhibition  of 
the  American  Institute.  It  cost  her  money — and  really  it  has 
done  execution.  That  great  walking  porker,  Frank  Rumminson, 
has  asked  her  hand,  and  won  it,  and  nobody  knows  it.  The  money- 
hunters  flock  around  her,  as  the  fish  do  round  a  fly.  Frank  will 
have  a  great  prize  with  her  ;  but  the  worst  of  it  is,  she  is  immortal. 
I  believe  she  must  have  descended  from  the  Wandering  Jew;  and 
I  '11  wager  a  dozen  of  champaigne  that  she  will  live  till  dooms 
day,  and  be  the  first  to  hear  the  angel  Gabriel  give  his  solo  oUi- 
gato  on  the  trumpet.'  f 

'  Hush,  Bob — you  are  getting  blasphemous.  This  won't  do. 
Who  else  was  there  ?'  < 

'  Why  Miss ,  the  younger.  You  know  she  was  thought 

quite  rich,  and  the  fellows  scoundrelized  about  her  very  exten 
sively,  until  they  found  their  error,  when  they  retired  in  shoals. 
I  asked  one  of  them  last  night  what  had  become  of  her  property. 
'  Ah !'  said  he,  *  my  fine  boy,  we  were  misinformed.  She  has 
no  property  to  become  o/*.'  \  .  t< 

Thus  they  went  on  ;  but  I  must  explain  their  lingo.  When 
these  varlets  wish  to  inquire  among  themselves  respecting  a  lady's 
fortune,  they  interrogate  under  the  synonym  of  an  inquiry  as  to 
her  moral  character.  If  affluent;  it  is  '  excellent ;'  if  middling, 
she  '  has  a  fair  reputation ;'  if  without  any  funds  they  call  her 
*  perfectly  abandoned,  with  no  character  at  all.'  So  they  go ; 
playing  evermore  the  same  mercenary  and  scoundrel  game.  Out 
upon  them  !  They  ought  to  be  hanged,  and  then  be  pulled  by  the 

6 


82  OLLAPODIANA. 

nose.  The  damsel  of  whom  the  young  partyzan  spoke,  with  all 
her  plainness,  is  deluged  with  compliments  and  love-letters.  As 
Frank  Rumminson  is  the  elect,  she  burns  most  of  these  scrawls 
without  reading.  

BY  the  by,  how  much  tact  and  genius  it  requires  to  write  a 
good  love-letter.  Most  persons  are  ill  at  these  amorous  scrip 
tures.  I  encountered  one  the  other  day,  in  an  ancient  tome, 
(the  Extravagaunt  Shepherd),  that  pleased  me  mightily.  Here  it 
runs : 

'Mr  DEAREST  DEER  : 

*  SITHENCE  that  love,  which  is  the  lightest  bird  in  the  world,  hath 
nestled  in  my  bosom,  it  hath  proved  so  full  of  egg,  that  I  have  been  forced 
to  suffer  him  to  lay  there.  But  sithence  he  hath  laid  it,  he  hath  sate  upon 
it  a  long  tyme,  and  at  length  hath  hatched  this  little  pullet  which  I  now 
send  you.  The  breeding  of  it  will  cost  you  little ;  all  the  food  it  will  re 
quire  will  be  caresses  and  kisses.  And  withal,  it  is  so  well  taught  that  it 
speaks  better  than  a  paraqueto,  and  so  will  tell  you  my  sufferings  for  you. 
It  hath  in  charge  to  inquire  of  you  whether  or  no  you  are  yet  displeased 
with  me,  and  to  let  me  know  your  mind,  not  by  a  pullet  so  big  as  this,  but 
by  the  least  chicken  you  please,  if  I  may  have  your  favor;  with  this  promise, 
that  if  you  have  laid  aside  your  rigor,  I  shall  send  you  no  more  pullets,  but 
present  you  with  full-grown  birds,  full  of  valor  and  affection.  LYSIS. 

'  Flowers,'  saith  Shakspeare,  *  are  love's  charactery ;'  and  I 
dare  be  sworn  he  never  thought  that  passion,  or  the  record  which 
confessed  it,  could  be  symbolized  by  so  familiar  a  fowl  as  a  pullet. 
However,  Miss  L  an  don  declares  that  *  Love  is  full  of  phanta 
sies,'  and  the  billet  doux  of  the  Extravagant  Shepherd  prove  it. 
If  the  nestling  fowl  was  kind,  it  is  probable  that  Lysis  very  soon 
engendered  barn-door  birds  enough  to  stock  an  aviary.  Doubt 
less  the  pastoral  youth  could  have  said,  with  Godfrey  of  Bul- 
loigne : 

'Ah,  cruel  Love,  that  slayeth  us  equally, 
Where  worm-wood  thou  or  honey  do  dispence; 
And  equal  deadly  at  all  seasons  be 
Mischieves  and  medicines  that  proceed  of  thee.' 

I  HAVE  been  looking  for  several  evenings  with  great  earnestness 
at  the  comet.  Whether  I  have  seen  farther  into  it  than  my  con 
temporaries,  I  can  not  tell.  I  have  observed  enough,  however, 
to  convince  me  that  this  Stranger  in  our  sky  is  a  very  *  eccentric 
character.  It  wanders  about  ad  libitum — shedding  the  light  of 
its  countenance  wherever  it  listeth — free  and  independent — the 
Democrat  of  the  air.  <  Success  to  its  wand'rings,  where'er  it 
may  go !' 

Many  sensible  things  have  been  said  of  comets.     Old  DIED- 


OLLAPODIANA.  83 

RICH  KNICKERBOCKER — heaven  rest  his  soul! — expressed  his 
fears,  on  the  ipse  dixit  of  certain  philosophers  —  and  his  modest 
pen  blushed  while  he  did  so — that  the  comet  would  one  day 
*  turn  tail  upon  the  earth,  and  deluge  it  with  water.'  But  that 
was  founded  on  a  false  hypothesis.  It  is  cheering  to  believe  that 
a  better  destiny  awaits  it. 

Levity  aside ;  is  it  not  a  grand  and  vast  conception,  that  this 
wan  and  misty  orb  has  been  travelling  swifter  than  the  swiftest 
cannon-ball,  through  the  dim  realms  of  space,  since  our  SAVIOUR 
slept  in  the  manger  at  Bethlehem,  and  the  Star  in  the  East  lit  its 
fires  for  the  Wise  Men's  eyes?  Is  it  not  like  Divinity,  that 
power  of  Astronomic  prophecy,  which  pierced  the  curtains  of 
the  future,  and  foretold  the  advent  of  this  blazing  world  ?  Looks 
it  not  like  sharing  attributes  with  Omnipotence,  and  '  circumvent 
ing  GOD  ?'  And  when  this  generation  shall  be  slumbering  in  the 
dust,  that  predicted  orb  will  again  stream  its  *  horrid  hair'  across 
our  sky.  When  the  lover  who  has  now  looked  at  it  with  his 
mistress  shall  become  a  patriarch  among  his  children ;  when  the 
child  now  lisping  its  early  inquiries  of  the  wandering  star,  shall 
tell  the  tale  in  after  years,  to  some  grand-babe  throned  on  her 
knee — then  the  comets  will  come  again!  What  changes,  what 
revolutions,  what  convulsions  of  states  and  empires,  will  chance 
ere  then !  My  soul  expands  into  a  sense  of  sublimity,  as  I  re 
flect  on  the  vast  world  of  events  between.  How  many  ties  will 
be  severed — how  many  hearts  be  broken  —  how  many  tears  be 
shed !  Yet  while  on  earth  these  vicissitudes  will  advene  and 
vanish,  in  that  far  element  above  and  around  us  this  luminous 
globe  shall  wander  with  its  train,  flashing  and  glowing  through  the 
fields  of  immensity.  Thought  itself — Imagination  in  her  boldest 
flight — sinks  with  wearied  wing,  unable  to  grasp  the  stupendous, 
boundless  theme  !  Truly  said  the  ancient  minstrel ;  *  When  I 
survey  the  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers,  the  moon  and  the 
stars  which  thou  hast  ordained,  then  I  say,  what  is  man  that  thou 
art  mindful  of  him,  or  the  son  of  man  that  thou  visitest  him  ?' 

What  a  pity  it  is,  that  we  have  no  great  telescopes  in  our 
country,  to  survey  the  skies  withal.  There  was,  during  the  last 
winter  and  spring,  a  locomotive  astronomer — doubtless  of  Yan 
kee  extraction — who  paraded  of  evenings  about  the  streets  of 
Philadelphia,  with  a  large  glass  stationed  on  a  frame.  He  sold 
small  parcels  of  astronomy,  at  sixpence  a-piece.  I  bought  three 
shillings  worth  of  him  in  the  course  of  the  season.  He  was  door 
keeper  to  the  heavenly  bodies ;  and  had  all  the  realm  of  sky — 
Azrshire — as  his  own.  I  got  the  worth  of  my  outlay  every  time. 
I  saw  Jupiter,  Saturn,  the  Rings,  and  the  revolving  satellites,  all 


84  OLLAPODIANA. 

for  aftpennybit.  I  shall  never  cease  to  thank  this  surveyor  of 
celestial  lots  for  the  glimpes  of  heaven  that  he  gave  me.  I  form 
ed,  while  looking  through  his  immense  lenses,  some  idea  of  the 
swiftness,  the  tremendous  energy,  with  which  this  earth  revolves 
on  her  axis.  The  old  alma  mater  has  in  truth  a  restless  time  of 
it.  Notwithstanding  the  immense  distance  of  the  stars  observed, 
the  glass,  resting  on  the  solid  earth,  would  glide  by  them  in  a 
moment.  The  eternal  dance  of  planets  went  on,  each  sphere 
rolling  in  its  own  atmosphere,  with  worlds  on  countless  worlds 
beyond ;  surrounded  with  infinity,  and  making  melody  to  GOD  ! 
I  care  not  how  I  come  by  such  thoughts  as  these,  but  it  is 
very  queer  to  see  a  person  peddling  sublimity  by  the  glimpse, 
and  snacks  of  astronomy  at  so  much  the  squint,  or,  as  it  were,  by 
the  quintal.  Nobody  but  a  member  of  the  Universal  Yankee 
Nation  would  have  conceived  this  stellar  enterprise.  'Dinumeras 
Stellas,  si  potesj  was  said  of  old :  and  I  will  wager  my  opera-glass, 
that  some  ingenious  American  will  take,  ere  long,  an  ethereal 
census.  Mr.  Clayton,  with  his  thirty-passenger  balloon,  is  des 
tined  to  put  out  the  first  celestial  feeler  in  the  business.  By  St. 
Paul !  we  can  do  anything  in  this  country.  I  believe,  with  a 
lamented  friend,  if  Mount  ^tna  were  sold  to  an  American  Stock 
Company,  that  money  could  be  evoked  from  the  transaction  : 
'  Enceladus  would  be  made  to  roar  by  contract,  and  the  natural 
fire- works  be  exhibited  for  a  consideration  !' 


How  pleasant  is  a  lovely  thing,  a  little  out  of  season  !  Just 
now  a  humming-bird  came  fluttering  about  a  few  dahlias  that  are 
blushing  in  my  window,  through  the  yellow  sunshine  of  this 
warm  October  day.  He  lingered  for  a  moment,  *  like  atom  of 
the  rainbow,  glittering  round,'  and  then  balanced  his  beautiful 
pinions  for  flight.  His  tiny  form  is  just  fading,  in  the  direction 
where  the  many-colored  foliage  of  Washington  Square  is  twink 
ling  to  the  breeze  : 

THOU  fairy  bird,  whose  golden  wing 

Mounts  on  the  west  wind's  stealing  sigh : 

For  thee  the  flowers  profusely  fling 
Their  last  aroma  through  the  sky 

Go  on  rejoicing ;  but  take  heed  that  thy  flight  be  not  in  the  win 
ter.     Ours  is  a  changeful  climate,  Master  Cobweb. 

This  incident  has  revived  in  my  mind  three  perfect  stanzas, 
from  a  pen  once  wielded  by  a  hand  now  mouldering  in  the  grave. 
Nothing  can  be  sweeter  or  purer.  They  breathe  the  very  phi 
losophy  of  Faith,  and  soul  of  Song.  The  strain  was  suggested 
to  the  author  on  seeing  a  butterfly  resting  on  a  skull. 


OLLAPODIANA.  85 

CREATURE  of  air  and  light ! 
Emblem  of  that  which  may  not  fade  or  die; 

Wilt  thou  not  speed  thy  flight, 
To  chase  the  south  wind  through  the  glowing  sky  ? 

What  lures  thee  thus  to  stay 

With  silence  and  decay, 
Fix'd  on  the  wreck  of  cold  mortality  ? 

The  thoughts  once  chambered  there, 
Have  gathered  up  their  treasures,  and  are  gone  ; 

Will  the  dust  tell  us  where 
They  that  have  burst  their  prison-house  have  flown  ? 

Rise,  nursling  of  the  day, 

If  thou  wouldst  trace  their  way — 
Earth  hath  no  voice  to  make  the  secret  known. 

Who  seeks  the  vanished  bird, 
By  the  forsaken  nest  and  broken  shell  ? 

Far  hence  he  sings  unheard, 
Yet  free  and  joyous,  mid  the  woods  to  dwell ! 

Thou  of  the  sunshine  born, 

Take  the  bright  wings  of  morn  ! 
Thy  hopes  call  heavenward  from  yon  gloomy  cell. 

No  more  at  present,'  dear  Reader,  from  your  faithful 

OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER   EIGHT. 

December,  1835. 

THAT  was  a  good  inscription  which  Byron  desired  should  be 
recorded  on  his  monument — '  Implora  pace  /'  Delicious  peace  ! 
I  love  thee  as  I  do  sleep.  Thou  insensible  Dove,  that  waftest 
upon  thy  soft  and  fragrant  pinion  the  odors  from  the  gardens  of 
the  Hesperides,  and  Islands  of  the  Blest !  I  love  thee  for  the  rich 
reveries  in  which  my  soul  is  steeped  when  thou  art  nigh ;  whether 
thou  comest  in  gusty  Autumn,  in  the  solemn  stillness  of  a  starry 
winter's  night,  in  the  glow  of  Summer,  or  the  balm-breathing 
loveliness  of  Spring.  It  is  only  the  idea  of  its  peace,  which 
reconciles  us  to  the  grave.  When  the  hurly-burly  of  life  is  over, 
it  is  sweet  to  believe  that  there  is  rest  in  the  tomb.  The  heart 
shrinks  indeed  from  its  breathless,  pulseless,  and  '  cold  obstruc 
tion  ;'  but  there  is  comfort  to  the  care-worn  bosom  in  the  thought 
of  its  repose.  When  the  *  fitful  fever'  of  earth  has  frenzied  heart 
and  brain ;  when  the  sad  breast  is  surcharged  with  groans  and 
sighs ;  it  is  not  melancholy  to  believe  in  the  rest  of  the  grave. 
"When  bitter  images  take  possession  of  the  mind  ;  when  friends 


86  OLLAPODIANA. 

are  faithless,  and  love  inconstant — then  the  wearied  one  sighs  for 
tranquility,  and  saith  with  Otway  : 

« Oh,  for  a  long,  long  sleep,  and  so  forget  it !' 

Thus  Socrates  reasoned,  it  may  be,  when  he  raised  to  his  lips  the 
chalice  of  oblivion,  and  quaffed  his  deadly  hemlock. 


I  HAVE  thought  on  this  wise,  from  reading  the  numerous  in 
stances  of  suicide  that  have  occurred  in  our  country  within  the 
year.  But  alas  !  the  majority  of  the  cases  were  perpetrated  by 
those  to  whom  even  death  itself  could  afford  neither  refuge  nor 
remedy ;  to  whom  eternity  could  have  seemed  in  prospect  but  a 
perpetuity  of  horror  ;  and  with  whom  the  thought  of  futurity  was 
but  the  prolonging  of  guilty  principles  and  ever-during  remorse, 
those  dark  and  gloomy  curtains  that  invest  forever  the  chambers 
of  the  soul. 

It  is  worth  observing,  that  the  majority  of  suicides  occur 
among  men.  Indeed,  when  I  inspect  the  annals  of  crime,  I  have 
no  great  partiality  for  my  own  sex.  Who  fill  our  prisons  ?  Men. 
Who  throng  our  criminal  courts,  to  receive  the  public  smitings 
that  fall  from  the  arm  of  Justice  ?  Principally  men.  Who  is  it 
that  may  be  said  to  grow  sick  the  oftenest  of  life,  and  so  rush 
into  the  world  of  spirits  ?  Mostly  men.  Who  are  uncompunc- 
tious  in  pulling  the  fatal  trigger,  or  assaulting  the  jugular  with 
shining  steel?  Men  —  men  !  Can  any  one  deny  this  ?  I  trow 
not.  There  is  a  reason  for  it,  too.  Woman,  in  her  worst  estate, 
is  purer  than  man  in  his  worst.  Sensibilities,  which  are  worn 
away  among  men,  in  their  intercourse  with  the  world,  linger  and 
play  about  her  heart,  even  when  the  fountain  of  virtue  in  her 
bosom  has  been  turned  to  bitter  and  polluted  waters.  The  lin 
gering  principle  of  human  affection  sometimes  warms  her  cheek 
and  bedews  her  eye,  even  when  the  holiness  of  rectitude  has  be 
come  a  forgotten  quality,  and  a  hateful  thing.  The  divinity 
within — the  earliest  gift  of  Heaven  —  continues  to  reflect  itself 
upon  the  face  from  the  soul,  until  at  last  the  faint  image  of  good 
ness  becomes  imperceptible ;  and  the  brazen  front  of  shameless 
vice  has  lost  the  beauty  of  its  morning,  and  the  image  of  its  GOD. 

The  crimes  of  women,  when '  they  do  commit  crime,  arise 
from  some  tender  source  at  first,  which  gradually  hardens  into 
desperate  wickedness.  It  is  long  before  she  surrenders  herself 
to  the  suggestions  of  vice  : 

« But  when  she  falls,  she  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  rise  again.' 


OLLAPODIANA.  87 

The  true  being  and  end  of  womankind  is  love  ;  and  from  this, 
if  I  may  so  speak,  all  their  sorrows,  if  they  pervert  that  holy  and 
heavenly  passion,  directly  proceed.  I  reverence  the  principle  of 
love  in  woman.  It  seems,  indeed,  the  atmosphere  in  which  she 
lives,  and  moves,  and  has  her  being.  The  arms  and  wings  of 
her  spirit  seem  ever  reaching  and  panting  to  clasp  to  her  bosom, 
and  brood  over,  some  object  of  human  affection.  In  the  smile  of 
her  lip,  in  the  glance  of  her  eye,  in  the  soft  and  bewildering 
melody  of  her  voice,  we  find  but  the  semblances  and  echoes  of 
the  Spirit  of  Love.  She  delights  to  minister  to  our  comfort ;  to 
invest  our  pathway  with  the  roses  of  delicate  enjoyment ;  to  lend 
sunshine  to  the  hearth,  and  repose  to  the  evening  hour.  I  have 
never  thought  upon  the  gentle  and  unobtrusive  influence  of  wo 
man,  without  feelings  of  the  deepest  admiration.  She  seldom 
hates.  When  she  is  wronged,  she  is  forgiving ;  when  destroyed, 
she  still  turns  with  an  eye  of  earnest  regret  to  that  paradise  of 
innocence  from  which  her  passions  have  driven  her ;  and  in  soli 
tude,  by  day  or  at  evening,  *  she  waters  her  cheek  in  tears  with 
out  measure.'  ^ 

In  woman,  all  that  is  sacred  and  lovely  seems  to  meet,  as  in 
its  natural  centre.  Do  we  look  for  self-denial  ?  See  the  devoted 
wife.  For  resolute  affection,  struggling  through  countless  trials? 
Behold  the  lover.  For  that  overflowing  fulness  of  fond  idolatry 
which  gives  to  things  of  earth  a  devotion  like  that  which  should 
ascend  to  GOD  ?  Behold  the  mother,  at  the  cradle  of  her  infant, 
or  pillowing  its  drowsy  eyelid  on  her  bosom  ;  supremely  blest  to 
see  its  fair  cheek  rise  and  fall  upon  the  white  and  heaving  orb, 
where  it  finds  nourishment  and  rest !  This  is  woman  ;  always 
loving  ;  always  beloved.  Well  may  the  poet  strike  his  lyre  in 
her  praise  ;  well  may  the  warrior  rush  to  the  battle-field  for  her 
smile  ;  well  may  the  student  trim  his  lamp  to  kindle  her  passion 
ate  heart,  or  warm  her  dainty  imagination  :  she  deserves  them 
all.  Last  at  the  cross  and  earliest  at  the  grave  of  the  SAVIOUR, 
she  teaches  to  those  who  have  lived  since  His  sufferings,  the 
inestimable  virtue  of  constant  affection.  I  love  to  see  her  by  the 
couch  of  sickness ;  sustaining  the  fainting  head  ;  offering  to  the 
parched  lip  its  cordial,  to  the  craving  palate  its  simple  nour 
ishment  ;  treading  with  noiseless  assiduity  around  the  solemn 
curtains,  and  complying  with  the  wish  of  the  invalid  when  he 

*  LET  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view- 
About  my  room,  about  my  bed; 
But  blooming  roses,  wet  with  dew, 
To  cool  my  burning  brow  instead  :' 


88  OLLAPODIANA. 


sing  the  sunlight  upon  the  pale  forehead,  bathing  the  hair 
with  ointments,  and  letting  in  upon  it  from  the  summer  casement 
the  sweet  breath  of  Heaven !  How  lovely  are  such  exhibitions- 
of  ever-during  constancy  and  faith! — how  they  appeal  to  the 
soul ! — like  the  lover  in  the  Canticles,  whose  fingers,  when  she 
rose  to  open  the  door  to  her  beloved,  dropped  '  with  sweet  smel 
ling  myrrh  upon  the  handles  of  the  lock  !'  No  man  of  sensi 
bility,  I  take  it,  after  battling  with  the  perplexities  of  the  out-door 
world,  but  retires  with  a  feeling  of  refreshment  to  his  happy  fire 
side  :  he  hears  with  joy  the  lisp  of  the  cherub  urchin  that  climbs 
upon  his  knee,  to  tell  him  some  wonderful  tale  about  nothing,  or 
feels  with  delight  the  soft  breath  of  some  young  daughter,  whose 
downy,  peach-like  cheek  is  glowing  close  to  his  own.  I  am 
neither  a  husband  nor  a  father  ;  but  I  can  easily  fancy  the  feel 
ing  of  supreme  pleasure  which  either  must  experience.  Let  us 
survey  the  world  of  business  :  what  go  we  '  out  for  to  see  ?' 
The  reed  of  ambition,  shaken  by  the  breath  of  the  multitude  ; 
cold-hearted  traders  and  brokers,  traffickers  and  overreachers, 
anxious  each  to  circumvent  his  fellow,  and  turn  to  his  own  purse 
the  golden  tide  in  which  all  would  dabble.  Look  at  the  homes 
of  most  of  these.  There  the  wife  waits  for  her  husband ;  and 
while  she  feels  that  anxiety  for  his  presence  which  may  be  called 
the  hunger  of  the  heart,  she  feeds  her  spirit  with  the  memory 
of  his  smile  ;  or  perhaps  looks  with  fondness  upon  the  pledges 
of  his  affection,  as  they  stand  like  olive-branches  round  about 
his  table. 

Reader,  on  my  honor  I  do  not  wish  to  be  prosy  ;  and  as  I 
have  no  one  to  advertise  me  on  that  point,  I  must  trust  my  own 
judgment.  Ollapod  sometimes  elongates  a  subsection ;  but  he 
shortens  others.  So  I  must  e'en  discourse  more  upon  this  theme 
of  woman  ;  for  I  have  some  events  which  I  wish  to  interweave 
herein ;  events  that  cast  no  particular  credit  upon  the  scurvy 
gender  to  which  I  belong. 

I  say  all  this  in  behalf  of  woman,  however,  with  a  mental 
reservation,  which  I  will  promulge  anon.  At  present,  I  leave 
essay  for  narrative. 

A  FEW  days  ago,  as  I  was  taking  my  accustomed  morning's 
walk,  in  a  mild  October  morning,  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city 
whereof  I  am  a  denizen,  I  found  myself,  on  a  sudden,  in  the 
open  country.  The  melancholy  landscapes  of  Autumn  stretched 
around ;  and  the  bright  hues  which  had  characterized  the  season 
were  beginning  to  disappear.  Nothing  disturbed  my  meditations, 
except  the  passage  of  some  early  market  man  or  woman,  hieing 


OLLAPODIANA.  89 

with  their  little  world  of  cares  and  hens  to  the  mart  of  the  town. 
I  wandered  unconsciously  onward,  until  I  discovered  that  I  was, 
as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,  fronting  a  low,  time-worn 
tenement.  A  few  vehicles  were  drawn  up  around  it.  and  seeing 
a  medical  friend  whom  I  knew,  I  inquired  the  cause  of  the 
assembly.  He  informed  me  that  a  young  girl  had  committed 
suicide,  and  was  then  lying  dead  in  an  upper  apartment.  Moved 
with  sorrowful  curiosity,  I  complied  with  his  request  to  enter.  In 
one  apartment  were  several  females,  in  tears  and  distress  ;  in 
another,  the  witnesses,  and  members  of  the  coroner's  jury.  As 
cending  a  staircase,  I  found  myself  in  the  presence  of  the  Dead  ; 
of  One,  who,  before  the  first  dark  day  of  nothingness  had  swept 
the  lines  of  beauty  from  her  features,  was  lying  on  a  pallet  of 
straw,  pale  in  dissolution.  The  sight  was  mournful  and  solemn. 
Her  face  had  lingering  about  it  all  the  features  of  beauty  :  its 
ensign  was  still  floating  above  the  voiceless  lip,  and  the  deep- 
sealed  eye.  Heavy  masses  of  rich  auburn  hair  lay  in  waves  on 
each  side  of  her  snowy  temples  ;  a  faint  hue  lingered  about  the 
cheeks  ;  but  the  foamy  and  purple  lips  indicated  how  violent 
was  the  death  she  had  died.  By  the  bed-side  lay  a  half-eaten 
apple,  and  a  large  rhomboid  of  corrosive  sublimate.  Particles 
of  this  deadly  poison  were  still  upon  the  fruit.  Thus  the  life- 
weary  taker  had  ended  her  days.  I  looked  out  upon  the  gloomy 
waste  of  country  over  which  she  had  gazed  her  last,  at  twilight, 
the  evening  before,  and  tried  to  realize  what  must  have  been  the 
depth  of  agony  which  possessed  her  spirit  then.  How  must  her 
bruised  heart  have  throbbed  with  misery ! — how  dark  must  have 
been  her  soul! — like  that  of  the  Medea  of  Euripides,  when  she 
prepared  the  deadly  garments  for  her  rival,  and  dedicated  to 
death  the  children  of  her  womb.  Thoughts  of  the  cause  now 
agitated  my  mind.  She  had  confided,  and  been  betrayed.  Cru 
elty  and  abuse  had  been  her  lot ;  but  amidst  all  she  had  been 
constant  and  devoted.  Her  hands  were  clasped  as  if  in  prayer ; 
and  the  potent  poison  had  overcome  her  system  ere  she  could 
disunite  them. 

There  are  moments  when  the  mysteries  of  eternity  throng  so 
rapidly  upon  our  imagination,  that  we  live  years  of  contempla 
tion  in  their  little  round.  This  was  the  case  with  me.  There 
lay  the  prostrate  form  of  one  whose  only  crime  had  been,  that 
she  had  loved,  not  wisely,  but  too  well ;  one  who,  stung  to  the 
heart  by  the  destroyer  of  her  peace,  had  determined  to  lay  down 
her  aching  head  and  sorrowful  bosom  in  the  rest  of  the  grave. 

As  I  stood  gazing  at  the  lifeless  object  before  me — interrupted 
only  by  the  pitying  ejaculations  of  the  few  that  were  present,  or 


90  OLLAPODIANA. 

the  sobs  of  those  who  were  below  —  I  was  requested  by  the  sur 
geon  in  attendance,  as  a  personal  favor,  to  go  in  his  private  car 
riage  to  the  house  of  the  father  of  the  deceased,  and  apprize  him 
of  the  fatal  occurrence,  of  which  he  was  still  ignorant.  Receiv 
ing  my  directions,  I  went.  I  drove  up  to  a  handsome  dwelling 
in  a  distant  street,  and  was  ushered  by  a  servant  into  a  beautiful 
drawing-room,  where  a  glowing  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate. 
Every  thing  around  betokened  ease  and  plenty,  if  not  opulence. 
The  folding-doors  of  the  parlor  soon  opened,  and  the  warm  air 
from  an  adjoining  elegant  apartment  came  in  from  another  fire. 

The  father  stood  before  me.  He  was  a  respectable  looking 
person,  but  bore  about  him  the  marks  of  violent  passions,  and  an 
indomitable  will. 

It  was  by  slow  and  painful  degrees  that  I  communicated  to  him 
the  horrid  death  of  his  child.  When  I  had  unburthened  my  mind 
and  heart,  he  seemed  to  stand  like  a  statue  of  marble  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  then,  sinking  upon  an  ottoman,  he  gave  way  to  the  agony 
of  his  soul.  His  chest  heaved  with  his  deep-drawn  sighs,  his  lip 
faltered,  and  tears,  stern  tears,  *  like  the  first  drops  of  a  thunder- 
shower,'  came  to  his  eye. 

I  saw  him  stand,  a  few  moments  after,  by  the  corpse  of  his 
daughter.  Words  cannot  describe  the  scene. 

THE  history  of  her  sorrows  and  fate  may  be  briefly  told.  Her 
father  had  emigrated,  with  a  lovely  and  engaging  wife,  from  a 
foreign  country.  She  was  their  first-born  ;  beloved — idolized. 
When  brothers  and  sisters  were  growing  up  with  and  around  her, 
she  was  the  favored  of  them  all. 

At  last,  her  mother  died.  She  was  just  budding  into  woman 
hood,  when  this  sad  event  took  place.  After  the  funeral  rites, 
she  found  that  she  was  destined  to  fill  her  mother's  place,  so  far 
•as  the  guardianship  and  care  of  her  young  brothers  and  sisters 
were  concerned.  She  knew  the  stern  disposition  and  headstrong 
passions  of  her  parent,  and  she  strove  to  the  utmost  to  meet  his 
wishes  and  oblige  his  will.  Soon,  however,  his  demeanor  began 
to  change.  He  insisted  that  she  was  unable  to  perform  the  du 
ties  required,  and  a  house-keeper  was  procured  —  one,  it  seems, 
not  dissimilar  to  the  celebrated  Original  mentioned  by  Byron. 
She  was  overbearing  and  vulgar.  By  degrees,  the  daughter 
perceived  too  surely,  that  her  mother's  place  was  filled  to  the  ut 
most,  in  all  its  relations,  by  a  dishonest  and  unholy  woman. 
She  suffered  in  silence ;  she  blushed  at  her  own  degradation, 
through  the  recklessness  of  her  parent,  but  she  breathed  not  a 
-word.  At  last  her  silence  was  imputed  to  insubordinate  anger ; 


OLLAPODIANA.  91 

she  was  pronounced  incorrigible,  and  driven  from  her  father's 
house — an  outcast. 

Hitherto  she  had  been  worthy  and  innocent.  But  evil  exam 
ples,  and  a  just  filial  anger,  fired  her  soul.  She  sought  the  house 
of  a  friend,  a  close  intimate  of  her  mother's,  where  she  lived  as 
an  assistant  in  the  lighter  and  more  elegant  duties  of  a  house 
hold.  By  degrees,  her  beauty  attracted  the  attention  of  a  youth, 
the  son  of  her  protectress.  She  loved ;  she  was  beset  with 
solemn  vows,  and  an  unbroken  train  of  temptations  ;  until,  finally, 
she  was  betrayed ;  and  unable  to  battle  against  her  own  remorse, 
and  the  thousand  shames  that  rained  on  her  defenceless  head, 
she  sought  the  drug  and  the  grave  ! 

Now  that  for  which  I  do  somewhat  abate  my  admiration  of 
women,  is  this.  They  condemn  all  derelictions  from  duty,  with 
out  discrimination.  In  a  case  like  the  present,  they  make  no 
distinction ;  they  see  the  bruised  heart  sink  into  the  dust,  with 
scarce  an  expression  of  regret,  and  hear  the  report  that  a  sister 
spirit  has  rushed,  unanointed  and  unannealed,  into  the  presence 
of  its  GOD,  without  one  throb  of  pity.  Why  this  inexorable 
judgment  ?  Why  this  absence  of  extenuating  reasons  ?  Why 
is  it,  with  them,  that 

*  Every  wo  a  tear  can  claim, 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame  ?' 

I  pretend  not  to  tell ;  but  if  their  opinions  are  severe,  what 
shall  be  said  of  those  fiends  in  human  form,  who  poison  the  foun 
tains  of  virtue  in  the  innocent  bosom  ;  whose  lips  breathe  the 
black  lie,  and  the  broken  vow  ?  Is  there  a  punishment  too  great 
to  be  inflicted  upon  the  villain  who  approaches  the  fair  fabric  of 
virtue  only  to  leave  it  in  ruin  and  desolation  ?  Is  hell  too  much  ? 
No  !  To  repay  the  love  which  one  has  himself  awakened  with 
disgrace  and  scorn  ;  to  drive  the  spirit  one  has  polluted,  into  the 
presence  of  that  CREATOR  from  whom  it  came  bright  and  unsul 
lied  ;  what  guilt  can  be  greater,  in  all  the  annals  of  crime  ? 

My  heart  burns  with  indignation,  as  I  dwell  on  the  theme. 
How  many  a  very  wretch,  among  the  youth  of  our  cities,  is  dash 
ing  in  the  beau  monde,  whose  true  place  is  the  penitentiary ; 
whose  only  relief  from  its  walls,  is  the  prodigal  love  of  some  vio 
lated  virgin,  who  has  suffered  long  and  is  kind !  These  are 
solemn,  but  almost  interdicted  truths.  There  are  some  whom  J 
know,  of  this  detestable  class  ;  men  who  will  bow,  and  sentimen 
talize,  and  flourish  at  soirees  and  assemblies,  at  operas  and  thea 
tres,  who  have  valiantly  spent  years  of  their  worthless  and  spend 
thrift  lives,  in  daily  and  nightly  endeavors  to  compass  the  dis- 


92  OLLAPODIANA. 

honor  of  some  lowly  and  lovely  One,  whom  '  nature  made  weak,, 
trusting  her  defence  to  man's  generosity ;'  whose  happiness  was 
the  end  and  aim  of  loving  parents,  and  whose  brow  her  dishonor 
has  laid  in  the  tomb  ! 

Let  me  not  be  understood  as  the  apologist  of  guilt.  I  rever 
ence  the  sweetness  and  majesty  of  virtue,  but  I  love  the  sway  of 
justice.  I  would  warn  the  tender  sex  against  the  easy  prejudice 
which  leads  them  to  visit  the  sins  of  the  voluptuous  offender  of 
the  moral  law  upon  the  victim  whom  only  years  of  systematic 
villany  could  bring  within  his  toils ;  who  makes  the  holiest  pas 
sion  subservient  to  the  establishment  of  the  unholiest ;  until  at 
the  last,  honor,  conscience,  hope,  all  that  was  worth  possessing, 
is  banished  from  that  breast  which  he  found  pure,  and  left  cor 
rupted  and  in  shame.  

TALKING  of  shame  :  I  wonder  if  a  young  woman  ever  made 
a  better  defence  of  her  lover  than  did  Juliet  for  Romeo,  before 
that  garrulous  old  nurse  of  hers  : 

NURSE. —  Shame  come  to  Romeo ! 
JULIET.        Blistered  be  thy  tongue 

For  uttering  that  word  !     Upon  his  brow 

Shame  is  ashamed  to  sit. 

It  is  a  throne  where  Honor  should  be  crowned 

Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth. 

I  admire  that  glorious  play  of  Shakspeare's.  It  abounds  with 
such  gushes  of  heavenly  tenderness — such  delicate  expressions, 
such  delicious  passages,  that  I  revel  in  its  perusal.  It  is  a 
thing  to  read  at  Summer  twilight,  or  at  the  close  of  a  soft,  mild 
day  in  Autumn.  True,  I  would  not  much  affect  the  hearing  of 
it  from  the  lips  of  your  rouged  and  periwig' d  players ;  but  it  is 
sweet  to  read.  I  doubt  whether  there  is  more  excellent  music  in 
any  composition,  more  melliffluous  and  touching,  than  the  fol 
lowing  lines.  Just  note,  dear  reader,  how  the  rich  liquids  melt 
and  mingle  with  each  other ;  especially  in  the  lines  I  have  itali 
cised  : 

JULIET. — Wilt  thou  begone  ?     It  is  not  yet  near  day  : 
It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear: 
Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree  : 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

ROMEO. —  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 

No  nightingale :  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds,  in  yonder  East: 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops  : 
I  must  be  gone  and  live — or  stay,  and  die.' 


OLLAPODIANA.  93 

I  know  nothing  in  the  range  of  English  composition,  except 
two  or  three  verses  in  Gray's  Elegy,  superior  in  harmony  to 
these.  America,  however,  puts  in  her  claim.  It  has  been  re 
served  for  a  bard  of  this  republic  —  some  inglorious  Milton  of 
the  West — to  approach  the  divine  original.  Reader,  elevate 
thine  ear  and  listen.  The  verse  now  to  be  quoted,  is  from  a  love- 
letter,  indited  by  a  youth  who  was  recently  indicted  for  a  breach 
of  the  marriage  promise,  and  mulcted  in  many  shekels.  Thus 
he  vents  his  plaint,  and  spell  of  wo : 

*  DON'T  you  hear  yanders  tirkle  dove 

A-morning  upon  yanders  tree  ? 
It  is  a-morning  for  its  true  love, 
So  do  I  morn  to  be  with  thee  !* 

There  is  said  to  be  *  a  coincidence  in  great  minds  ;'  and  really 
these  last  quoted  verses  would  seem  to  prove  it.  Juliet  and  her 
Romeo  speak  of  the  lark  and  nightingale  ;  our  bard  changes 
those  sweet  fowls  to  the  '  tirkle-'dove,'  and  causes  it  to  roar  you 
gently,  as  if  it  were  yet  unweaned.  But  we  will  let  him  go. 

IT  is  strange  what  a  wonderful  power  we  have  In  every  one  of 
our  senses  to  awaken  associations  !  The  taste  of  some  well- 
flavored  apple,  such  as  I  used  to  eat  in  other  days,  will  open 
upon  me  a  whole  volume  of  boyhood.  Sometimes,  too,  there 
are  tones  in  a  flute,  deftly  discoursed  upon,  that  arouse  within 
my  spirit  a  thousand  recollections.  They  convoy  me  back  to 
better  times,  and  I  find  myself  hiding  with  my  young  playmates 
among  the  ripe  strawberries  of  the  meadow,  listening  the  while 
to  the  '  sweet  divisions'  of  the  bob-o'lincoln,  as  it  sang  in  the  air ! 
Little  paroxysms  of  puerility  such  moments  are ;  but  I  would 
not  exchange  them  for  the  plaudits  of  the  multitude,  or  the  voice 
of  revelry.  Something  I  had  then  about  my  heart — some  light 
aerial  influence  —  which  has  since  been  lost  among  the  hollow 
pageantries  of  the  world.  I  admire  that  song  of  Hood's,  in 
which,  while  recapitulating  the  memories  of  his  boyhood,  he 
says: 

4 1  REMEMBER,  I  remember 

The  pine  trees,  dark  and  high  ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky ; 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance— 
But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy  /' 

In  truth,  if  one  wishes  to  preserve  the  true  wisdom  of  nature, 
he  must  keep  about  him  the  childhood  of  his  soul.  That  was  a 


94  OLLAPODIANA. 

pleasant  feature  in  the  character  of  Chief  Justice  Marshall.  I 
have  seen  it  related  of  him,  that,  not  many  years  before  his  death, 
he  used  to  be  found  in  the  neighborhood  of  Richmond,  Virginia, 
with  his  coat  off,  playing  at  quoits  with  the  youth  of  that  region. 
He  lacked  no  wisdom ;  but  he  knew  what  was  good  for  the  spirit, 
and  had  a  relish  for  fun. 

APROPOS  of  fun :  there  are  many  who  wish  to  be  grave  and 
dignified  without  the  'power  of  face!'  I  knew  a  little  bandy 
legged  comedian  once,  who,  finding  his  profession  insufficient  for 
his  wants  turned  undertaker.  Here  was  a  change  !  He  carried 
into  his  new  business  his  old  merry  smirk,  and  the  roguish 
twinkle  of  his  eye  ;  insomuch  that  when  patrons  called  to  get  his 
hearse,  or  a  coffin,  he  seemed  evermore  laughing  at  their  sorrows. 
He  finally  gave  up  his  fresh  calling  in  despair.  He  said  his 
cursed  facetious  mug  would  be  the  ruin  of  him,  in  any  serious 
vocation.  He  has  now  betaken  himself  to  the  art  and  mystery 
of  tailoring,  in  which  he  hopes  to  thrive.  Perhaps  he  may ;  but 
he  has  taken  a  wrong  course  for  it ;  because 

His  speculative  skill 
Is  hasty  credit  and  a  distant  bill ; 

two  most  dubious  specimens  of  enterprise. 

BY-THE-BY  —  how  ambitious  students  do  make  this  class  of 
artisans  suffer  !  I  remember  a  fellow,  Bob  Edwards  by  name, 
whom  all  the  scholars  loved,  and  all  the  landlords  hated,  who 
used  to  patronize  these  thread-and-needle  citizens,  until  he  nearly 
ruined  several  of  them.  He  was  an  adroit  rascal,  yet  one  of  the 
funniest,  gleesome  dogs  alive.  He  once  founded  in  the  institu 
tion  a  train  of  soirees,  called  '  Baked-Potato-Parties,'  and  right 
pleasant  ones  they  were ;  for  all  the  appurtenances  of  wine,  but 
ter,  bread,  and  everything  good,  were  smuggled  by  '  Dust  and 
Ashes'  to  grace  the  feast.  These  revels  occurred  every  other 
night,  among  the  students  of  the  different  halls.  One  afternoon, 
when  it  came  Edwards'  turn  to  play  the  host,  it  chanced  to  be  a 
dismal  day ;  there  was  a  fine,  drizzling  rain  coming  down  upon 
the  damp  and  heavy  snow.  He  determined,  to  cheer  his  spirits, 
after  recitations,  to  anticipate  the  evening's  glee,  with  one  or  two 
boon  companions.  Accordingly  he  despatched  to  my  apartment 
the  following : 

'VERO     ILLUSTRISSIMO     JOHANNO     OLLAPODIO: 

'SALUTEM! 

*  VENE  meo  cubiculo  hoc  post  meridiem  quartern  horam  vel  dimidium. 
horae  post.  Hoc  est  damnatus  dies  pluvialis,  et  habeo  ceruleos  diabolosr 
similis  Tartaro. 


OLLAPODIANA.  95 

'Forsitan  possumus  habere  conversationem  plenam  jocundttatis,  et 
superfusam  optimorum  jocorum  —  si  inclinationem  habis  ire  indivisum  Por- 
culura,  vel  elevare  Antiquum  Henriqum,  in  hanc  viam,  Sperabo  videre 
meum  excellentissimum  amicum  Ollapodianura,  horam  ante  scriptam. 

Pax  Vobiscum. 
1  Die  Januarii,  vigessimo  secundo,  anno  Cliristi,  ) 

millessimo,  octingessimo,  vigesimo  secundo."1      $  'ROBERTUS.' 

In  compliance  with  this  mysterious  and  classical  summons,  I 
repaired  speedily  to  Edwards'  apartment.  He  had  made  ample 
preparations  for  his  *  party ;'  but  he  was  desirous  to  exceed  the 
usual  hilarity  of  the  occasion.  I  found  him  surrounded  with 
good  things.  A  basket  of  grape  champaigne  in  one  corner ;  in 
another,  a  bushel  of  potatoes,  poured  out  upon  the  floor ;  a 
bake-pan  in  the  midst,  and  a  glorious  flame  in  his  fire-place.  In 
our  anticipatory  proceedings,  we  became  exceedingly  jolly ;  so 
much  so,  indeed,  that  I  forgot  entirely  how  the  time  passed  when 
I  should  have  been  at  my  ordinary  supper  with  the  fellows  of  my 
mess,  at  our  boarding-house.  By-and-by,  the  members  of  the 
party  began  to  arrive  ;  and  the  apartment  was  soon  crowded  al 
most  to  suffocation.'  But  the  wassail  had  scarcely  begun.  The 
4  boys'  continued  to  crowd  in ;  until  at  last  there  was  a  perfect 
jam.  A  pretty  girl  from  our  quarters  .had  been  engaged  to  act 
as  general  attendant,  and  she  was  never  treated  with  more  respect 
ful  deference  than  on  that  memorable  evening. 

At  last,  the  time  came  to  '  serve  up.'  The  baked  potatoes 
with  all  their  luxurious  condiments,  were  dished;  and  when  our 
repast  was  finished,  we  were  dished.  Few,  indeed,  of  our  large 
symposium  could  tell  his  elbow  from  his  chin,  or  any  other  por 
tion  of  his  anatomical  system.  We  became  obstreperous.  As 
Charles  Lamb  says,  '  There  was  too  much  fun.'  By  degrees, 
however,  we  came  partially  to  ourselves,  and  I  happened  to  re 
member  that  there  was  a  ball  in  the  neighborhood,  to  which 
nearly  all  of  us  had  been  invited.  An  old  sleigh  was  procured ; 
we  ferreted  out  four  horses,  and  a  negro  named  Apollo,  to  drive 
them  ;  and  off  we  started  in  high  glee,  on  our  saltatory  enterprise. 

I  hastened  to  my  room,  when  our  plan  was  decided,  and  hur 
riedly  completed  my  wardrobe.  We  embarked  en  masse  in  the 
sleigh — and  how  we  went!  In  a  shorter  time  than  I  can  des 
cribe,  we  were  at  the  festive  resort.  We  heard,  as  we  were  rig- 
ging,  the  music  from  the  hall. 

WE  entered — Jove  knows  how.  I  remember  being  struck 
with  the  gay  appearance  of  the  ball-room,  and  the  large  assem 
blage  of  pretty  girls.  I  stepped  up  to  one — the  daughter  of  a 
Judge,  and  a  member  of  Congress.  She  was  one  of  your 


96  OLLAPODIANA. 

plump,  rosy-faced  creatures,  buxom  and  pleasing.  '  She  was  a 
being  of  loveliness ;  nature  had  compressed  and  concentrated  in 
her  dumpy  form,  the  attractions  of  a  dozen.  Her  face  was 
bright  and  expressive — her  figure,  of  course,  was  perfect — O, 
quite  so !' 

To  this  damsel  I  addressed  myself,  and  solicited  her  hand  in 
the  dance.     She  assented  ;  and  with  my  brain  reeling  with  fan 
cies  of  wine  and  women,  I  really  thought,  for  the  moment,  that 
she  *  did  me  proud.'    I  flourished  my  'kerchief,  restored  it  to  my  . 
pocket,  and  proceeded  to  encase  my  digits  in  gloves. 

THE  dance  was  beginning,  I  took  my  place,  and  drew  my 
silk  gants  hastily  over  my  hands.  The  black  fiddler  had  stamped 
— we  were  near  the  head — and  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  I 
'  seized  my  partner,'  as  commanded  by  the  sable  Apollo,  and 
went  ahead.  When  we  reached  the  bottom  of  the  row  —  for  it 
was  a  country  dance  —  I  was  all  in  a  glow;  and  drawing  my 
mouchoir  from  my  pocket,  essayed  to  mop  my  perspiring  temples. 
As  I  did  so,  I  was  partially  'ware  of  a  general  snicker  through 
the  room.  '  What  could  it  be  for  ?  I  looked  around  ;  every  one 
looked  at  me.  I  looked  down  —  then  at  my  hands.  The  sight 
was  quite  enough.  For  a  handkerchief,  I  had  flourished  a  com 
mon  dickey,  the  strings  whereof  fell  to  my  feet  —  long  as  the 
moral  law.  For  gloves,  I  had  selected  from  my  trunk  a  pair  of 
short  silk  pump-hose,  '  well  saved'  by  numerous  emendations  that 
had  been  required  by  sundry  previous  scrapes ;  all  these  I  had 
displayed  on  and  in  my  hands,  before  the  multitude ! 

Words  are  but  poor  types  of  my  chagrin.  One  haw-buck 
dancer  —  a  fellow  whom  I  caught  in  several  vulgar  attempts  to 
achieve  a  '  pigeon-wing'  —  came  up  to  me  with  an  impudent  air, 
and  thus  right  eloquent,  said : 

*  Mister,  I  think  them  gloves  o'  your'n  must  be  so'th'in  rather 
new.  Dare  say  the're  fresh  from  'York.  They  are  darned  good, 
any  how ;  any  body  can  see  that.' 

'  I  say,'  yelled  another  biped  of  the  same  genius,  *  is  that  the 
last  go  for  han'ker'chers  ?  They  can't  steal  them,  can  they,  with 
strings  to  'em.  That's  a  right  smart  contrivance.' 

THERE  are  some  matters  of  the  Past,  upon  which  I  do  not 
look  back  with  any  special  complacency  —  and  this  is  one. 

But  *  the  longest  night,'  as  well  as  the  longest  day,  *  maun  ha' 
an  end.'  I  was  too  jovial  to  comprehend  exactly  the  ridiculous 
ness  of  my  whereabout  in  the  ball-room ;  but  its  memory  accom 
panied  my  head-ache  the  next  morning  most  vividly. 


OLLAPODIANA.  97 

The  worst  of  the  affair,  however  —  setting  aside  all  the  desa- 
gremens  of  creeping  through  our  cold  halls  to  bed  somewhere 
about  three  in  the  morning  —  had  not  yet  come.  Edwards' 
beautiful  Latin  letter  to  me  had  been  dropped  in  the  great  hall, 
and  some  officious  puppy,  who  disliked  either  him  or  me,  had 
conveyed  it  to  the  president.  No  man  ever  showered  a  more 
humiliating  lecture  upon  another,  than  did  that  worthy  function 
ary  impart  to  Edwards,  before  all  the  members  of  the  institution, 
after  morning  prayers.  He  inveighed  against  his  insubordination, 
his  profanity,  and  his  general  looseness  of  character,  in  terms 
altogether  too  harsh,  and  quite  disproportioned  to  his  offence. 

Edwards  was  cut  to  the  quick,  and  he  determined  to  have 
some  kind  of  satisfaction.  He  sent  for  me  at  noon  to  come  to 
his  room.  I  found  him  boiling,  over  his  grate,  a  kind  of  olla- 
podrida,  composed  'of  mashed  potatoes,  tar,  and  brimstone.  His 
eye  twinkled  as  he  pointed  to  the  '  mess  of  pottage.' 

'  Slab  and  good,  isn't  it  ?'  said  he  laughing. 

*  What  in  the  name  of  wonder,'  replied  I,  *  are  you  going  to 
do  with  that  stuff?' 

'Never  you  mind,  my  boy — nous  verrons.  I  am  going  to 
make  a  pair  of  gloves  for  a  friend  of  mine.' 

I  could  get  no  other  clue  to  his  intentions.  All  that  he  requir 
ed  of  me  was  to  help  him  carry  the  kettle  at  midnight  to  an  ad 
jacent  creek,  and  to  keep  dark  on  the  subject. 

I  promised  —  for  Edwards  could  always  persuade  me  to  any 
thing —  and  I  kept  my  promise. 

The  next  morning  the  president  came  down  from  his  room,  in 
the  second  hall,  (to  which  he  always  ascended  for  a  few  moments 
after  coming  from  his  home),  slipping  his  hands  along  the  banis 
ters,  as  his  manner  was,  and  entered  the  chapel.  As  he  closed 
the  door,  his  hand  stuck  to  the  knob  thereof.  He  pulled  it 
away  with  gentle  violence  ;  and  looking  at  his  dexter,  found^t 
begrimed  and  black,  with  a  specious  of  sombrous  gray  pudding. 
His  brow  flushed  with  anger,  as  he  ascended  to  his  desk  on  the 
rostrum. 

'  Students !'  he  said,  lifting  both  his  hands  in  a  mock-heroic 
attitude,  *  I  have  been  the  object  of  some  one's  narrow  spite. 
The  bannisters  leading  to  the  second  hall  have  been  covered  with 
an  adhesive  and  unclean  substance,  the  component  parts  of  which 
I  could  not  analytically  recognise  on  a  cursory  inspection,  but 
which  are  doubtless  unsavory  and  displeasing  to  the  last  degree. 
This  mingled  substance,  composition,  or  compost,  has  been 
placed  there,  as  an  insult  to  me.  I  ask,  earnestly,  who  is  it-  that 
has  done  this  thing  ?' 


98  OLLAPODIANA. 

No  one  answered,  but  a  subdued  titter  ran  through  the  chapel. 

*  I  ask,'  he  repeated,  '  who  is  the  author  of  this  outrage  ?  Who 
had  a  hand  in  it  ?' 

1  Please,  Sir,  nobody  knows,'  said  one  Tom  Hines,  a  friend 
of  Edwards ;  *  but  it  is  thought,  Mr.  President,  that  you  have 
had  the  greatest  hand  in  it.  It  certainly  appears  so !' 

*  Silence,  impertinent  youth  !'  said  the  president,  loftily  waving 
his  dingy  hand  ;  '  your  conjectures  are  needless.     I  shall  leave 
no  stone  unturned  to  ferret  out  this  mystery.     Let  us  pray.' 

This,  however,  was  the  last  of  the  marvel.  I  kept  Edwards' 
counsel;  the  kettle  was  under  the  ice — and  his  room  told  no 
secrets.  The  wisdom  of  our  noble  principal  never  fathomed  the 
wonder  which  so  troubled  him.  The  interpretation  of  it  was 
never  made  known.  If  he  is  yet  alive,  and  this  sketch  should 
meet  his  eye,  he  may  find  a  clue  to  the  *  occulted  guilt'  of  Ed 
wards.  

WE  had  a  great  passion  in  those  days,  when 'we  sleighed  in 
the  vicinity,  for  exciting  the  surprise  of  the  rustic  publicans  there 
about,  by  what  we  called  lingual  embellishments.  Edwards  set 
this  novelty  afloat.  I  remember  a  pung-ride  one  evening  to  an 
inn,  a  few  miles  distant,  (the  sign  of  which,  swinging  from  a  pine 
bough  over  the  door,  bore  the  name  of  ;  The  United  States 
Hotel,  and  North  American  Mansion  House'),  where' Edwards 
entered  in  quest  of  some  sweet  potatoes  for  a  supper.  It  was 
an  esculent  much  affected  by  us  all. 

*  Landlord !'  said  he,  as  he  entered,  cracking  his  whip,  '  can 
you  enable  us,  from  your  culinary  stores,  to  realize  the  pleasure 
of  a  few  dulcet  murphies,  rendered  innocuous  by  igneous  martyr 
dom?' 

4 1  don't  know  them  dishes,'  answered  Boniface  ;  '  I'll  jest  ax 
my  wife.' 

1  Oh,  go  the  unadorned  English,  Edwards,'  cried  we  all ;  *  ask 
for  what  we  want  in  the  mother  tongue.' 

*  Well,  here  goes ;  in  other  words,  landlord,  can  you  bake  us 
some  sweet  potatoes  V 

t  Oh,  sartingly!  Walk  in  the  other  room  —  walk  in  —  walk 
in,'  said  the  publican,  as  much  relieved  as  if  he  had  been  re 
prieved  from  the  gallows — for  he  felt  mortified  at  his  want  of 
comprehensive  scholarship. 

POOR  Edwards  ! — he  died  in  India.  A  propensity  for  voya 
ging  overcame  his  soul ;  and  for  years  he  strayed  about  the  world, 
just  for  the  excitement.  He  closed  his  pretty  law-office,  after  he 


OLLAPODIANA.  99 

had  graduated,  to  go  to  sea  before  the  mast ;  came  home  in  his 
tarpaulin  hat,  and  with  hands  hard  as  stone.  On  the  strands  of 
Asia,  Africa,  and  Europe,  he  trode  ;  and  finally  sunk  under  a 
fever  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges.  His  cousin,  who  was  his 
idol,  died,  as  I  believe  of  a  broken  heart.  Many  a  foreign  ship 
brought  letters  from  him  to  her  hand ;  and  it  was  ever  his  fond 
hope  to  return,  and,  when  his  wanderings  were  over,  to  settle  in 
his  native  village  —  make  her  his  bride' — go  gently  with  her 
down  the  declivity  of  years  —  and  *  die  at  home  at  last.' 

She  never  smiled  after  she  heard  of  his  death  ;  but  sank  calmly 
and  sweetly  to  her  dreamless  repose. 

Poor  Emily  Egerton !  I  admired  thee,  that  thou  wast  my 
friend's  best  friend  ;  and  for  his  sake,  thy  beauty  pleased  me ; 
and  thine  eye  was  brighter,  that  its  sweetest  glances  were  for  him. 
Alas !  for  the  dust  that  has  fallen  upon  those  lips,  once  so  musi 
cal  and  now  so  dumb  —  for  the  smile  that  Death  has  broken  — 
for  the  hopes  that  .were  buried  with  thee  !  But  when  such  as  thou. 

evanish  from  the  world,  who  shall  repine  ? 

• 
I  KNOW  thdu*hast  gone  to  the  place  of  thy  rest 

Then  why  should  my  soul  be  so  sad  ? 
I  know  thou  hast  gone  where  the  weary  are  blesc, 

And  the  mourner  looks  up,  and  is  glad  ; 
•  *  Where  Love  hath  left  off,  in  the  land  of  its  birthr 

All  the  stains  it  hath  gathered  in  this ; 
And  Hope,  the  sweet  singer  that  gladdened  the  earth, 
Lies  asleep  on  the  bosom  of  Bliss. 


NUMBER  NINE. 

January,  1837. 

READER— do  you  skate?  Have  you  ever  enjoyed  the  ex 
ulting  sense  of  standing  upon  some  wide,  ice-bound  river,  having 
your  loins  girded  about,  and  your  feet  shod  with  the  preparation 
of  that  pleasant  pastime  ?  If  not,  then  hath  the  culture  of  your 
understanding  been  greviously  neglected.  With  me  skating  is  a 
passion.  When  the  winter  air  is  mild  and  bracing  —  when  there 
are  no  clouds  about  the  zenith,  but  a  few  quiet,  golden  ones, 
hanging  like  a  rich  curtain  all  around  the  horizon  —  then  to  step 
with  your  glittering  heel  upon  an  expanse  of  congelated  crystal, 
and  outstrip  the  wind  —  there  is  rapture  in  it.  It  is  the  quintes 
sence  of  life  and  '  free  moral  agency.'  You  can  go  where  you 
list,  and  as  you  list ;  fast  or  slow  ;  gliding  or  shooting  over  the 
area  where  you  are  disporting,  until  it  is  with  lines  '  both  centric 


100  OLLAPODIAXA. 

and  eccentric  scribbled  o'er,'  and  you  feel  that  you  have  done 
wonders.  I  love  to  push  onward  in  a  straight  line,  or  to  wheel  in 
curious  circumgyrations ;  forming  parallels  and  circles  on  my 
bright  high-dutchers  ;  leaving  droves  behind,  and  feeling  at  my 
heart  the  fiery  glow  of  the  skater's  ambition  ;  until  the  city,  with 
its  spires  and  flags  flouting  the  sky,  disappears  in  the  distance. 
There  is  nothing  like  it,  for  it  is,  next  to  a  sleigh-ride,  the  very 
soul  of  existence.  Nature  to  me  is  very  beautiful  in  winter. 
How  pure  is  the  air !  What  loveliness,  surpassing  even  the 
spring-time,  rests  on  the  landscape  !  The  hills,  rising  pale  and 
blue  afar;  the  vales  and  plains,  dotted  with  farm-yards,  where 
the  herds  are  huddled  '  in  their  cotes  secure,'  and  the  yellow 
straw  or  green  hay  marks  the  place  of  their  pleased  imprison 
ment.  From  the  barn,  you  hear  the  hollow-sounding  flail  of  the 
thresher ;  from  the  street,  near  and '  far,  the  cheerful  jingle  of 
bells  ;  and  all  around  you,  when  you  gain  some  eminence,  you 
Behold  the  shining  lakes  and  mountains,  bright  as  silver  in  the 
beams  of  the  sun !  Then  again,  winter  is  so  perfectly  salubrious. 
Sanctified  and  enshrined  in  its  atmosphere,  <  the  dog,  the  horse, 
the  rat,'  though  never  so  defunct,  are  inoffensive  for  months  ; 
whereas,  in  the  solstice,  they  would  directly  fill  your  nostril  with 
indignation,  and  demand  prompt  exequies.  I  say  I  like  winter, 
and  I  care  not  who  knows  it.  He  that  differs  from  me,  may  go 
his  ways.  His  taste  mislikes  me. 

Charles  Kemble  is  probably  one  of  the  best  skaters  in  the 
world.  Jehu!,  how  he  used  to  {'go  it'  on  the  Schuylkill,  until 
he  seemed,  not  ah  aged,  wig-ensconced  man,  in  lean  and  slipper- 
ed^pantaloon,  but  a  creature  of  the  elements,  endowed  with  the 
power  of  out-chasing  the  very  lightnings  of  heaven.  His  ele 
mentary  instruction  began  on  the  Serpentine,  in  London  ;  it  was 
completed  in  Germany ;  and  he  now  stands  before  the  world,  ac 
counted  a  superior  skater — oh,  very  much  so  !  But  he  is  very 
dull  in  Macbeth. 

WINTER  gives  energy  to  everything.  A  full  city,  in  sjeighing- 
lime,  is  a  perfect  carnival.  Whew  !  how  the  cutters,  pungs,  and 
fours-in-hand,  sweep  over  the  pave  !  How  the  bells  tintinnabu- 
late  !  Woman  looks  sweeter  then,  than  ever.  The  demoiselle 
in  her  boa,  with  her  muff  and  fur-shoes,  presents  a  picture  of 
warmth  and  comfort,  that  you  can  not  too  much  admire.  At  this 
season — perhaps  in  this  I  am  peculiar  —  'high  mountains  are  a 
feeling.5  How  I  should  like  to  have  been  with  Napoleon,  when 
he  crossed  those  wintry  Alps !  to  have  shared  in  the  excitement 
— the  danger — the  triumph  !  Never,  in  all  his  brilliant  career, 


OLLAPODIANA.  101 

did  he  perform  an  act  more  sublime  and  powerful,  in  my  eyes. 
This  alone,  had  he  achieved  nothing  more,  would  have  stamped 
him  the  greatest  Captain  of  his  age. 

APROPOS  of  Napoleon.  I  remember  hearing  from  somebody, 
or  reading  in  some  book,  or  pamphlet,  or  newspaper — bear  with 
me,  kind  reader,  in  this  incertitude,  for  I  have  forgotten  all  the 
particulars — an  anecdote  of  him  that  seems  to  me  worth  pre 
serving,  or,  perhaps,  I  should  rather  say,  rescuing,  from -the 
oblivion  to  which  it  is  rapidly  hastening.  It  finely  illustrates  one 
portion  of  his  infinitely-diversified  character  ;  and  I  marvel  that 
it  has  escaped  the  notice  or  the  researches  of  all  his  biographers, 
eulogists,  critics,  and  censors.  I  must  be  forgiven,  if,  in  recal 
ling  it,  I  should  be  guilty  of  a  lapse  from  historical^accuracy ;  I 
am  a  sad  bungler  at  dates,  and  my  library  boasts  not  a  '  Chro 
nology.' 

Thus  ran  the  tale.  One  of  the  detenus^  whom  the  abrupt  re 
sumption  of  hostilities  after  the  short  peace  of — Tilsit,  was  it? 
— found  a  wanderer  upon  the  French  soil,  for  his  greater  misfor 
tune,  was  an  Englishman  of  large  fortune,  and  some  rank  above 
that  of  a  mere  private  gentleman  ;  but  whether  knight,  baron,  or 
baronet,  is  more  than  I  can  remember.  He  was  a  widower,  with 
an  only  child,  a  daughter.  He  had  become  personally  known  to 
the  Emperor,  when  First  Consul,  and  a  certain  degree  of  friend 
ship  had  sprung  up  between  them.  This  friendship  was  in  some 
sort  renewed,  when  the  Englishman  became  an  involuntary  resi 
dent  of  the  French  capital ;  the  rigors  of  detention  and  survfH* 
lance  were  much  softened  in  his  behalf,  and  he  was  often  a  par 
taker  of  the  Emperor's  hospitality  ;  not,  indeed,  at  the  formal 
levees  and  soirees  of  the  palace,  but  in  private  and  familiar  visits, 
of  which  Napoleon  was  fond,  and  to  the  enjoyment  of  which  he 
appropriated  as  much  of  his  time  as  could  be  spared  from  the  im 
mense  number  and  magnitude  of  his  burdensome  imperial  occu 
pations.  The  Englishman  was  discreet,  and  the  monarch  con 
descending  ;  their  tete-a-tetes  were,  therefore,  not  infrequent,  and 
both  parties  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  their  repetition. 

The  child  of  the  Englishman  had  been  placed  at  a  school  in 
one  of  the  provincial  towns ;  but  he  solicited  and  obtained  from 
his  imperial  friend  permission  for  her  to  join  Ttim-inHParis.  He 
received  intelligence  of  her  setting  out,  accompanied  by  a  faith 
ful  domestic ;  but  days  passed  away,  and  she  came  not  to  lighten 
his  solitude.  His  anxiety  and  alarm  gained  strength,  day  after 
day,  until  at  length  they  drove  him  almost  to  phrensy.  He  im 
plored  leave  to  proceed  in  search  of  her,  and  it  was  granted ;  but 


102  OLLAPODIAXA. 

the  search  proved  unavailing.  He  was  enabled  to  trace  her  some 
distance  on  her  journey  to  the  capital,  but  at  a  certain  point,  all 
indications  disappeared,  and  he  was  driven  to  the  miserable  con 
viction  that,  in  some  mysterious  and  unaccountable  manner,  she 
had  perished.  He  returned  to  Paris,  almost  heart-broken. 

The  morning  after  his  arrival,  he  was  astonished  by  a  sudden 
visit  from  an  officer,  at  the  head  of  a  body  of  gens-d'armes,  who 
arrested  him  in  the  name  of  the  Emperor.  His  first  emotion 
was  astonishment,  his  second  indignation ;  and  this  was  not  a 
little  heightened,  when  the  officer,  with  an  unusual  degree  of 
harshness  and  brusquerie,  announced  to  him  that  he  was  accused 
of  conspiring  against  the  life  of  the  Emperor,  and  that  he  was  to 
be  confined,  en  secret,  until  the  day  of  his  trial  before  a  military 
commission. 

His  temper  was  naturally  quick  and  ardent,  and  it  vented  it 
self  in  reproaches,  exclamations,  and  perhaps  a  few  oaths ;  but 
as  they  were  uttered  in  English,  they  seemed  to  produce  no  effect 
on  the  officer.  He  was  placed  in  a  carriage,  the  blinds  were 
drawn,  and  the  horses  started  at  full  speed. 

After  riding  some  distance,  but  in  what  direction  the  prisoner 
could  not  determine,  by  reason  of  the  closeness  of  the  vehicle,  it 
stopped  suddenly,  a  bandage  was  drawn  over  his  eyes,  and  he 
was  led  into  some  building ;  but  whether  the  Conciergerie,  or  the 
Bicetre,  he  could  only  conjecture.  After  traversing  various  pas 
sages,  in  silence,  but  brooding  over  his  wrongs,  and  almost  burst 
ing  with  indignation,  his  progress  was  arrested,  the  blind  was  re 
moved  from  his  eyes,  and  he  found  himself  in  presence  of  his 
friend,  the  Emperor.  His  first  glance  conveyed  mere  wonder  ; 
but  those  which  followed  it,  were  glowing  with  anger,  which  in 
creased  at  every  moment.  The  brow  of  Napoleon  wore  a  gloomy 
frown,  but  the  heart  of  the  Englishman  was  too  full  of  wrath  to 
quail  even  before  that  fearful  sign ;  it  was  but  reflected  from  his 
own  bold  front.  'Tyrant! 'he  exclaimed,  but  before  he  could 
add  another  word,  a  door  was  flung  open,  and  his  blooming  child 
bounded,  all  life  and  loveliness,  into  his  arms.  Amazement  and 
happiness  made  him  dumb  ;  and  Napoleon,  smiling  as  none  but 
him  could  smile,  turned  to  leave  the  room,  with  the  single  re 
mark  :  *  Joy  and  surprise  would  have  turned  your  brain ;  it  was 
better  to  prepare  you  for  the  shock,  by  rousing  you  to  anger.' 

The  surpassing  skill  of  Fouche's  myrmidons  had  been  called 
into  employment  by  the  Emperor's  command,  and  had  succeeded 
in  discovering  the  child ;  but  how,  or  where,  I  have  forgotten. 

POOR  NAPOLEON  !  I  can  never  think  of  his  brilliant  career, 
and  desolate  end,  without  feeling  the  sublimity  of  Massillon's 


OLLAPODIANA. 


103 


ejaculation  over  the  dead  body  of  his  monarch,  as  it  lay  in  state 
before  him,  in  the  church  of  Notre  Dame.  '  GOD  alone  is  great!1 
He  commissions  Death,  with  his  cold  shaft,  and  the  mighty  are 
fallen.  The  cemetery  is  sublimer  than  the  battle,  or  the  corona 
tion.  There  speaks  a  power  which  is  beyond  all  others  ;  there, 
in  the  rustling  grass,  or  whisper  of  the  cypress,  we  hear  the 
knell  of  nations,  and  the  prophecy  of  that  to  which  they  all  must 
come — to  dust  and  silence  !  I  am  tempted,  here,  to  transcribe 
one  of  the  noblest  poems  ever  written  in  our  language.  It  may 
be  familiar  to  some  of  my  readers,  but  it  is  worth  a  hurtdred  pe 
rusals  ;  while  to  those  who  have  never  seen  it,  I  convey  a  trea 
sure  and  a  talisman  —  a  memento  mori.  The  author,  Herbert 
Knowles,  wrote  it  at  twilight,  in  the  churchyard  of  Richmond, 
England.  Shortly  afterward,  *  he  died  and  was  buried  in  the 
flower  of  his  manhood, 

THE    DEAD. 

'  METHINKS  it  is  good  to  be  here  :  if  thou  wilt,  let  us  build  three  tabernacles ;  one 
for  thee,  one  for  Moses,  and  one  for  Elias.'  THE  BIBLE. 

METHINKS  it  is  good  to  be  here  : 
If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build — but  for  whom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear  ; 

But  the  shadows  of  evening  encompass  with  gloom 
The  abode  of  the  Dead,  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition?     Ah  no ! 
Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away  ; 

For  see,  they  would  pin  him  below, 
In  a  dark  narrow  cave,  and  begirt  with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey 

To  Beauty  ?     Ah  no  ! — she  forgets 
The  charm  that  she  wielded  before  ; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm,  that  he  frets 
The  skin  that  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore, 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint  that  it  wore. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride  — 
To  the  trappings  that  dizen  the  proud  ? 

Alas  !  they  are  all  laid  aside  ; 
For  here 's  neither  wealth  nor  adornment  allow'd, 
Save  the  long  winding  sheet,  and  the  fringe  of  the  shroud. 

Unto  Riches  ?     Alas  !  —  'tis  in  vain ; 
Who  here  in  their  turns  have  been  hid, 

Their  wealth  is  all  squandered  again ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  forbid, 
Save  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  coffin-lid. 

To  the  pleasures  that  Mirth  can  afford  ? 
The  revel — the  laugh — and  the  jeer? 
Ah  !  here  is  a  plentiful  board  ; 


104  OLLAPODIANA. 

But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer,. 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love  ? 
Ah  no  !  they  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  flown  with  the  spirit  above  ; 
Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters,  are  laid  side  by  side, . 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  Sorrow  ?     The  dead  cannot  grieve  ; 
Not  a  sob,  nor  a  sigh,  meets  mine  ear, 

Which  compassion  itself  could  relieve  ; 

Ah  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  love,  hope,  nor  fear — 

*  Peace,  peace  is  the  watch-word — the  only  one  here. . 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow  ? 
Ah,  no  ! — for  his  empire  is  known — 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow  ; 
Beneath  the  cold  head,  and  around  the  dark  stone, 
Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 
And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise  : 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it  fulfilled, 
And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great  Sacrifice, 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both,  when  he  rose  to  the  skies ! ' 

SOME  one  of  our  countrymen  has  written  :  '  I  never  shun  a 
grave-yard.  The  thoughtful  melancholy  it  inspires,  is  grateful 
rather  than  displeasing  to  me.'  Here  we  differ.  I  do  shun  it ; 
and  I  hope  a  good  Providence  will  keep  me  out  of  one  for  a 
long  time.  I  desire  not  a  freehold  in  any  such  premises.  I  like 
the  liberal  air,  the  golden  sunshine,  the  excursive  thought ;  and 
I  pray  Heaven  to  detain  me  long  from  that  ancient  receptacle, 
where  my  kinsmen  are  inurned.  Give  me  the  vital  principle  be 
low  the  sun ;  and  though  I  cannot  be  astonishingly  useful  to  my 
fellow  beings,  or  carve  my  name,  just  now,  high  on  the  records 
of  fame,  I  can  at  least  enjoy  the  luxury  of  fancy,  feeling,  and 
respiration — to  say  nothing  of  the  pleasing  enjoyment  of  dream 
ing,  which  is  in  itself  worth  a  dukedom  —  and  the  rapture  of 
eye-sight.  I  love  not  your  sackcloth  misanthrope,  whose  who^ 
life  is  darkened  by  the  fear  of  its  inevitable  close,  and  em- 
jittered  in  the  mazes  of  metaphysics. 

SPEAKING  of  metaphysics,  reminds  me  of  Bob  Edwards. 
Reader,  thou  art  already  acquainted  with  Bob  ;  thou  hast  had  a 
touch  of  his  quality  in  the  potato  line,  and  hast  borne  him  com 
pany  in  sundry  expeditions  from  the  sacred  groves  of  Academus  ; 
thou  hast  seen,  that,  by  deeds  of  valiant  daring,  he  had  built  up 
for  himself  a  fame  which  extended  far  beyond  the  terrestrial 


OLLAPODIANA.  105 

limits  that  were  allowed  us  for  the  exercise  of  our  corporeal  func 
tions,  by  the  individual  who  instructed  the  youthful  creatures  of 
our  imaginations  in  the  use  of  fire-arms,  or,  in  the  language  of 
the  immortal  poet, 

'  Taught  our  young  ideas  how  to  shoot.' 

He  was  the  plague  of  the  farmers,  the  glory  of  the  jollifiers,  the 
terror  of  the  mothers,  and  the  passion  of  the  daughters,  '  all 
over  the  world,  for  thirty  miles  round.' 

He  was  an  uncommon  youth,  was  Bob  —  O,  quite  so! 

Bob  had  a  philosophical  turn  of  mind,  and  was  looked  up  to 
by  his  satellites  with  unspeakable  reverence.  By  tacit  consent, 
he  was  vested  with  an  appellate  jurisdiction  in  the  little  comifcon 
wealth.  He  sat  in  judgment  upon  all  questions  of  law  or  equity, 
arising  between  its  juvenile  members.  He  delivered  his  opinion 
like  the  Oracle  of  Delphos,  and  his  decrees  were  final. 

It  was  winter ;  the  length  of  the  evenings  were  remarkable  for 
the  time  of  year,  the  frigidity  of  the  circumambient  atmosphere 
was — very  considerable.  A  thought  smote  Bob. 

He  called  his  associates  together,  he  made  a  speech,  in  which, 
with  all  the  alternate  fire  and  pathos  of  his  Heaven-born  elo 
quence,  he  described  the  trying  position  in  which  the  severity  of 
the  weather  had  placed  them.  He  spoke  of  the  physical  enjoy 
ments  of  the  human  race  as  empty  vanities,  which  an  all-wise 
Providence,  for  his  own  good  purpose,  had  qualified  with  pains 
and  penalties.  He  adverted,  in  melting  terms,  to  the  uncommon 
scarcity  of  game,  by  which,  for  a  time,  they  were  debarred  from 
the  dignified  and  soul-ennobling  pursuit  of  hunting  foxes.  He 
went  on  to  observe,  that  the  improvement  of  the  intellectual 
faculties  was  one  of  the  first  duties  of  man ;  and  after  enlarging 
with  great  talent  upon  this  incontrovertible  position,  he  proposed 
to  his  auditors  that  they  should  organize  a  society  for  the  discus 
sion  of  subjects  involving  questions  of  abstract  science.  (By 
the  way,  there  are  plenty  of  such  discussions  and  societies  now- 
a-days,  of  which  cui  bono  should  be  the  motto,  but  whereof  I 
would  not  for  a  ton  of  gold  be  supposed  to  speak  lightly.  Oh, 
by  no  means !)  He  proceeded  to  explain  his  views  at  length, 
and  his  purpose  having  been  received  with  a  unanimous  appro 
val,  the  constitution  was  signed,  the  officers  were  elected,  and 
Bob  was  placed  in  the  Presidential  chair  of 

THE    METAPHYSICAL    SOCIETY. 

And  now,  reader,  Bob  was  in  his  glory.  Many  were  the  dis 
cussions  held  by  that  erudite  body,  and  numerous  were  the  eluci- 


106  OLLAPODIANA. 

dations  of  the  scientific  mysteries  which  had  baffled  the  mightiest 
intellects  of  past  ages.  I  do  especially  remember  me  of  one  dis 
cussion  in  which  our  venerated  President  himself  largely  partici 
pated.  It  was  deemed  of  much  interest  to  the  cause  of  learning, 
that  the  debates  of  the  society  should  be  preserved  on  record  ; 
wherefore,  the  office  of  Grand  Stenographer  had  been  instituted, 
into  which  responsible  station  I  had  been  sworn,  with  great 
solemnity,  a  short  time  previous  to  the  period  to  which  I  refer. 

It  had  been  determined  to  hold  a  grand  Debate  upon  a  question 
of  grave  importance.  The  President's  proclamation  had  gone 
forth,,  with  an  imposing  aspect.  Three  gigantic  hand-bills  were 
indited  by  his  private  secretary.  One  of  these  was  fastened  with 
ten-penny  nails  upon  the  portal  of  the  Interniculum  Frumenti, 
(as  the  corn-crib  was  classically  denominated  ;)  a  second  on  the 
vestibulem  of  the  Temple  of  the  muses,  (or,  as  it  was  termed  by 
the  common  people,  the  Pig-pen,)  and  the  third  was  emblazoned 
on  the  academic  Stabulum. 

I  subjoin  a  true  copy  of  the  document,  taken  from  the  records 
of  the  Society. 

'SOCII    SOCIETATIS    METAPHYSICS. 

4  Convocabunt  in  sedibus  Academies  C  -  33,  dimidium  horse  post  septi- 
mum,  die  Jovis,  vigesimo  Januarii. 

*  Orationis  argumentum  est  maximi  rnomenti,  quia  involvit  casus  scientise, 
antea  nunquam  agitates. 

*  Quamobrem,  nos,  Praefectus  hujus  Societatis  eruditse,  per  hoc  manda 
mus  omnibus  sociis,  fautoribus  Metaphysicarum,  congregare  accurate  sedi 
bus  ante  dictis. 

'Questio  quae  proponitur  argumento,  utsequitur:  '  An  chimera,  bombin- 
ans  in  vacuo,  devorat  secundus  intentioncs.' 

'In  hac  re,  nusquam  aberramini,  sub  poenasexdecim  caudarum  gallorum. 

EDWARDUS,  Frees.' 


Such  was  the  manifesto  of  President  Bob  ;  and  it  may  not  be 
improper  to  annex,  for  the  benefit  of  the  general  reader,  a  true 
rendition  into  the  vernacular,  of  the  question  on  which  the  Meta 
physical  Society  was  to  exercise  its  intellectual  energies. 

This,  then,  was  the  subject  of  discussion  :  *  Whether  a  chimera, 
ruminating  in  a  vacuum,  devoureth  second  intentions.'9 

The  erudite  reader  can  not  fail  to  perceive  the  importance  of 
the  occasion,  and  its  tendency  to  create  an  irrepressible  interest 
in  the  republic  of  letters.  I  pass  over  the  various  speculations 
on  the  subject  which  had  agitated  the  philosophical  world  pre 
vious  to  the  assembling  of  this  august  body  ;  and,r  deeming  that 
the  preceding  remarks  sufficiently  introduce  the  main  object,  I 
plunge  at  once,  in  medias  res. 

On  the  twentieth  day  of  January,  in  the  year  ,of  grace  one 


OLLAPODIANA.  107 

thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty-six,  a  grand  meeting  of  the 
Metaphysical  Society  of  C was  held  in  the  academic  build 
ings  of  that  ilk.  At  thirty  minutes  and  seventeen  seconds  past 
seven  o'clock,  post  meridiem,  the  great  door  of  the  ante-room 
was  thrown  open,  and  the  President,  supported  on  the  right  by 
the  chief  Curator,  Jehoikirn  Smilax,  and  on  the  left  by  the  Cen 
sor-general,  Eliphalet  Flunk,  entered  the  hall,  with  a  dignified 
step. 

The  members  rose  in  respectful  silence,  and  the  President,  ac 
knowledging  their  salutations  with  gracious  condescension,  passed 
on  to  his  official  seat.  The  attendant  officers  sat  in  their  respec 
tive  places,  on  either  side  of  the  Presidential  chair,  and  the 
Grand  Stenographer,  JOHN  OLLAPOD,  surrounded  by  the  insig 
nia  of  his  station,  occupied  his  accustomed  conspicuous  position. 

The  hall,  which  was  of  large  dimensions,  was  brilliantly  illu 
minated  with  five  dipt  candles,  of  a  superior  quality,  tastefully 
arranged  in  porter  bottles,  of  a  sea-green  hue.  The  whole  scene 
presented  an  imposing  aspect,  and  was  calculated  to  inspire  the 
beholder  with  feelings  of  solemnity  and  awe. 

My  space  will  not  permit  me  to  extract  from  the  records  the 
whole  of  the  President's  address,  which  followed  an  unbroken 
silence  of  three  minutes,  one  quarter,  and  some  odd  seconds.  I 
subjoin  only  these  observations  : 

*  MY  BRETHREN  :  You  are  assembled  to  give  to  a  subject  which  has  here 
tofore  confounded  the  wisdom  of  man,  the  infallible  test  of  your  delibera 
tions.  The  eyes  of  all  Europe  are  upon  you ;  and  you  occupy  an  altitude 
before  both  hemispheres,  calculated  to  call  forth  your  undivided  energies. 
Comment  from  me  were  useless. 

'  Now,  therefore,  brethren,  invoking  the  aid  of  our  blessed  Minerva  to 
your  righteous  endeavors,  I  quaff  this  smaller,  otherwise  called  cock-tail,  to 
the  victory  of  truth,  and  the  downfall  of  error.' 

He  spake,  and  taking;  from  the  custody  of  the  Grand  Treasurer, 
who  was  in  waiting  by  his  side,  a  tin  cup  of  considerable  capa 
bility,  he  transferred  the  generous  fluid  contained  therein,  to  the 
interior  of  his  abdominal  regions.  His  replenished  corpus  sank 
gently  into  the  official  receptacle,  where,  after  recovering  his 
natural  equilibrium,  he  signified  to  the  brethren  his  pleasure  that 
the  discussion  should  commence.  Whereupon  Mr.  Elnathan 
Rummins  arose,  and  thus  addressed  the  assembly : 

'MR.  PRESIDENT  :  In  getting  myself  up  to  discourse  to  this  learned  body 
on  the  affirmative  side  of  the  question  submitted  to  our  decision  I  feel  a 
diffidence  commensurate  with  the  stupendousness  of  the  subject.  Yet, 
having  bestowed  upon  it  much  studious  research  and  attention,  1  feel  impe 
riously  bound  to  express  it  as  my  decided  opinion,  that  a  chimera,  rumina 
ting  in  a  vacuum,  does  devour  second  intentions.  I  will  briefly  submit  my 
reasons. 


108  OLLAPODIANA. 

'Firstly:  I  will  take  leave  to  premise,  that  after  serious  and  mature  de 
liberation,  I  have  brought  my  mind  to  the  settled  belief  that  Metaphysics  is 
considerable  of  a  scifence ;  that  all  the  ideas  we  have,  are  derived  from  two 
sources,  viz  :  sensation  and  reflection  ;  and  that  the  latter  is  the  root  from 
which  all  abstract  ideas  are  generated. 

4  I  am  discussing  this  question,  Mr.  President,  upon  the  supposition  that 
the  doctrine  of  abstract  ideas  is  fully  established.  In  my  mind,  it  is  entirely 
so,  and  therefore  I  shall  not  argue  this  disputed  point.  If  my  premises  are 
false,  my  conclusions  will  collapse,  and  my  learned  opponent  must  benefit  by 
the  error. 

'  What  is  a  chimera,  in  the  modern  philosophical  sense  ?  Sir,  we  can  de 
rive  no  idea  of  it  from  our  senses  ;  the  faculty  of  abstraction  must  be  resort 
ed  to  for  a  definition  ;  the  mind  must  be  withdrawn  from  the  contemplation 
of  external  objects,  and  wrapping  itself  in  the  solitude  of  its  own  originali 
ty,  must  frame  from  its  own  exclusive  resources,  an  idea  of  this  singular 
being. 

'But  notwithstanding  this  apparent  difficulty,  there  is,  in  fact,  nothing 
more  easy  than  a  description  of  this  idea.  My  own  reflections  have  led  me 
to  the  conclusion,  that  a  chimera  is  an  immaterial,  incorporeal,  intangible, 
and  invisible  essence,  having  no  local  habitation,  and  possessing  neither  form, 
extension,  nor  substance.  Thus  I  may  indulge  the  pleasing  hope,  that  I 
have,  in  a  very  simple  manner,  conveyed  to  the  Society  a  clear  apprehension 
of  the  nature  of  this  abstraction. 

4  From  this  description,  it  will  be  perceived,  that  a  chimera  possesses  no- 
incarnate  attributes,  but  it  is  the  emanation  of  a  spiritual  essence,  and  there 
fore  must  be  eminently  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  thought,  or,  in  other 
words  of  rumination. 

4  Having  thus  briefly  pointed  out  the  abstract  idea  of  a  chimera,  and  prov 
ed  its  implied  powers  of  rumination,  I  proceed,  secondly  to  show  that  it 
possesses  the  undoubted  capability  of  ruminating  in  a  vacuum.  To  this 
end,  let  me  very  properly  show  the  nature  of  a  vacuum.  Little  need  be 
said  on  this  subject. 

4  According  to  some  modern  philosophers,  there  are  several  species  of 
vacua,  but  the  vacuum  cacervatum  is  that  to  which  I  particularly  refer  :  this  is 
conceived  as  a  space  entirely  destitute  of  matter ;  and,  in  my  apprehension, 
its  existence  was  successfully  urged  by  those  illustrious  men  who  professed 
the  Pythagorean,  the  Epicurean,  and  the  Corpuscularian  philosophy ;  but  as 
the  human  mind  is  composed  of  discordant  principles,  the  spirit  of  opposi 
tion  (for  I  cannot  imagine  it  to  have  been  anything  else)  induced  the  advo 
cates  of  the  Cartesian  doctrines  to  deny  its  existence.  They  urged,  that  if 
there  be  nothing  material  in  an  enclosed  space,  the  walls  of  the  enclosure 
must  be  brought  into  contact ;  thus  insisting  upon  the  principle,  that  exten 
sion  is  matter.  But  the  Corpuscular  authors,  with  much  promptness,  refu 
ted  the  arguments  of  the  Cartesians  and  Peripatetics,  by  the  existence  of 
various  circumstances  ;  and  they  instanced  planetary  and  cometary  motion, 
the  fall  of  bodies,  the  vibration  of  the  pendulum,  re-refraction  and  con 
densation,  the  divisibility  of  matter,  etc. 

4  Now  permit  me  to  observe,  Mr.  President,  that  it  is  altogether  impossi 
ble  to  effect  motion  in  ^.plenum.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  this  position  depend 
for  support  upon  my  bare  assertion ;  I  am  borne  out  in  it  by  the  dictum  of 
Lucretius,  thus:  4 Principium  quonam  cedendi  nulla  daret  res — undique 
materies  quoniam  stipatafuisset.'  Although  I  might  well  rest  here,  Mr.  Pres 
ident,  upon  such  mighty  authority,  I  will  nevertheless  enter  upon  the  proofs 
which  go  to  the  establishing  of  this  principle. 

4  First.     All  motion  is  in  a  straight  line,  or  in  a  curve  which  returns  into 


OLLAPODIANA.  109 

itself,  as,  for  example,  the  circle  and  the  ellipsis,  or  in  one  that  does  not 
return  into  itself,  as  the  parabolic  curve.  Second:  that  the  moving  force 
must  always  be  greater  than  the  resistance.  Now  it  is  perfectly  clear  from 
this,  that  no  quantum  of  force,  even  though  increased  ad  infinitum,  can 
produce  motion,  where  the  resistance  is  also  infinite ;  consequently,  it  is  not 
possible  that  motion  can  exist,  either  in  a  straight  line,  or  in  a  non-returning 
curve  ;  because,  in  either  of  these  cases,  the  amounts  of  force  and  resis 
tance  would  counterbalance  each  other;  that  is,  they  would  be  infinite. 

'  You  will  therefore  perceive,  Mr.  President,  that  there  remains  only  the 
motion  of  a  revolving  curve  practicable;  and  this  must  either  be  a  revolu 
tion  upon  an  axis,  or  an  annular  motion  round  a  stationary  body  ;  now  both 
of  these  would  be  impossible  in  an  elliptic  curve,  and  consequently,  all  mo 
tions  must  be  in  circles  geometrically  true  ;  and,  the  bodies  thus  revolving 
must  either  be  spheres,  spheroids,  or  cylinders;  otherwise  the  revolution  in  a 
plenum  would  be  altogether  impracticable.  But,  Sir,  such  figures  and  mo 
tions  have  no  existence  in  nature  ;  yet  we  know,  from  the  evidence  of  the 
senses,  that  motion,  in  a  non-returning  curve,  does  exist;  therefore  a  vacu 
um  must  exist. 

'  Having  now  shown  that  a  chimera  is  a  creature  of  the  imagination,  and 
that  therefore  it  does  not  require  the  inhalation  of  atmospheric  air  to  sup 
port  life,  and  having  shown  the  nature  and  existence  of  the  vacuum,  it  is  of 
course  evident  that  a  chimera  may  ruminate  in  a  vacuum. 

*  I  proceed,  in  the  next  place,  to  demonstrate,  that  a  chimera  thus  rumi 
nating,  does  devour  second  intentions.' 

AT  this  stage  of  his  speech,  Rummins  exhibited  symptoms  of 
exhaustion,  and  on  motion  of  Mr.  Jeremiah  Tomkins,  the  ques 
tion  was  postponed  until  the  next  ensuing  meeting.  Whenever 
I  feel  disposed  to  make  my  reader  bolt  a  few  solids,  among  his 
intellectual  edibles,  I  shall  fling  in  a  scrap  from  the  *  Society.'  I 
think  I  can  demonstrate  thereby,  that  a  great  deal  of  plausible 
argument  can  be  used,  to  demonstrate  a  small  amount  of  fact, 
mingled  with  an  immensity  of  error.  Metaphysics,  now-a-days, 
can  not  be  deemed  a  very  clear  science.  Muddy  brains  have 
elucidated  it  to  death.  That  was  not  a  bad  description  of  the 
art  given  by  the  Scotchman :  *  Metaphysics,  mon,  is  where  the 
hearers  dinna  ken  what  the  speaker  is  talking  anent,  and  he  does 
na  ken  himsel' ;'  but  the  following  definition  of  one  of  the  meta 
physical  tribe,  by  my  friend  Norman  Leslie,  is  perhaps  as  good 
a  one  as  can  be  found  :  'Metaphysician :  Encountered  a  Doctor.' 


Is  IT  not  singular,  how  one  thought  brings  on  another !  Now 
this  slight  discussion  of  metaphysics  and  abstraction,  reminds  me 
of  a  bachelor,  an  accidental  and  slight  acquaintance  of  mine, 
who  remains  in  single  blessedness,  because,  he  says,  he  has  al 
ways  been  accustomed,  '  e'en  from  his  boyish  days,'  to  look  at 
women  in  the  abstract.  Fine  eyes  he  regards  merely  as  filmy 
globes  of  water,  that  shut  their  coward  gates  against  an  atom ; 

:    *         . 


110  OLLAPODIANA. 

lips  he  deems  but  horizontal  lines  of  flesh,  constituting  the  aper 
ture  into  which  beef,  pork,  potatoes,  and  other  eatable  substances 
periodically  enter.  The  bloom  on  the  cheek  of  woman,  he  con 
siders  superfluous  blood,  prophetic  of  speedy  decay ;  smiles,  in 
his  esteem,  are  merely  the  effect  of  nervous  excitement;  and 
frowns,  he  thinks,  are  the  proper  elucidators  of  the  human  heart, 
especially  woman's,  which  he  says  has  always  a  small  portion  of 
discontent  and  anxiety  predominant  therein.  Holding  such  no 
tions,  he  is,  of  course,  somewhat  unhappy ;  but  he  dissipates  his 
ennui  by  a  copious  reception  of  vinous  fluids  ;  and  is,  moreover, 
a  potent  eater  of  oysters.  I  am  half  inclined  to  believe  in 
metempsychosis,  and  to  suppose  that  the  souls  of  these  testaceous 
articles,  if  souls  they  have,  ascend  him  into  the  brain,  and  give 
the  impetus  to  his  present  opinions.  At  any  rate  he  is  quite  a 
dolt.  I  always  cut  him  in  the  street.  His  reckless  life  has  undone 
him,  as  it  were.  He  owes  every  body ;  has  been  often  in  jail ; 
and  those  who  keep  his  company,  are  in  something  such  a  situa 
tion  as  one  would  be  at  sea,  in  a  leaky  boat,  they  must  be  ever 
more  *  bailing  him  out.'  I  think  he  has  come  to  his  present 
sentiments  in  consequence  of  the  treatment  he  receives ;  every 
body,  females  especially,  considering  him  a  nonentity ;  while  he 
looks  at  them  in  the  abstract. 

TO-MORROW  will  be  Christmas.  Happy  day  !  How  I  envy 
the  young  hearts  that  its  advent  will  cheer !  whose  elastic  and 
bounding  affections  it  will  revive  and  strengthen !  Would  to 
heaven  I  were  a  millionaire,  for  to-morrow  only  !  There  should 
not  be  a  rosy  face  in  the  Union  that  should  not  be  the  brighter 
for  my  benefactions.  I  would  distribute  presents  to  every  urchin 
and  miss  I  met ;  and  that  holiest  of  all  pleasures,  benevolence, 
should  nestle  warmly  in  my  bosom.  GOD  bless  the  children ! 
unsullied  by  the  guileful  contacts  of  the  world  ;  fresh  in  their 
feelings,  simple  in  their  desires,  fervent  in  their  loves,  they  are 
the  emblems  of  blessedness  and  peace.  Truly  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven ;  and  sweetly  did  the  characteristic  meek 
ness  of  our  SAVIOUR  appear  when  he  said,  '  Suffer  little  children 
to  come  unto  me  !'  Would  that  I  were  a  boy  again  !  Would 
that  I  had  my  few  years  to  live  over  again  !  I  would  enjoy  the 
present,  as  it  rolled  on  the  future  ;  I  would  revel  in  the  light  of 
sparkling  eyes,  and  the  smile  of  lips,  that  the  grave  has  closed 
and  sealed  for  ever !  I  would  sing,  and  shout,  and  fly  my  kite, 
and  glide  down  the  snowy  hill  on  my  little  craft,  as  in  days  of 
yore.  I  would  enjoy  the  spring,  as  I  used  once  to  do ;  that 
pleasant  season,  as  William  Lackaday,  Esquire,  observes  in  the 

t 


OLLAPODIANA.  Ill 

play,  '  when  the  balmy  breezes  is  a-blowin',  and  the  primroses 
peeps  out,  and  the  little  birds  begins  for  to  sing ;'  and  I  would 
make  it  a  point  to  have  no  enemies.  I  would  do  this  without 
being  a  Joseph  Surface,  too ;  for  I  hold  insincerity  to  be  the 
most  detestable  of  all  the  vices  for  which  men  go  unhung. 

It  strikes  me  that  Christmas  is  not  celebrated  with  such  sober 
ness  and  godliness  as  it  was  wont  to  be.  People  drink  more  than 
formerly,;  they  do  not  become  devout  over  the  deceased  turkey, 
or  adolescent  hen,  that  lies  in  solemn  lifelessness  before  the  eater  ; 
but  they  meet  in  clubs,  and  consort  with  publicans  and  sinners. 
If  Christmas  happeneth  toward  the  close  of  the  week,  they  '  keep 
up'  the  same  until  Sunday  hath  gone  by ;  and  it  is  not  until  the 
even-song  of  the  second  day  of  the  week  ensuing  the  festival, 
that  they  can  bring  themselves  to  cease  from  their  wassail ;  and 
even  then  they  do  it  with  much — oh!  considerable  —  reluctance, 
exclaiming,  as  they  ruminate  bedward,  *  Sic  transit  gloria  Mon- 


BEFORE  I  close  with  Christmas,  let  me  relate  a  little  story, 
just  now  told  me,  connected  in  some  degree  with  that  glorious 
holyday. 

Publicans  are  classed  in  the  New  Testament,  with  sinners,  as 
though  there  were  something  demoralizing  in  the  business  of 
keeping  open  house ;  but  if  the  conjunction  be  not  an  error  of 
the  translators,  I  know  of  at  least  one  exception  to  the  rule.  The 
individual  is  hereby  immortalized. 

Some  twenty  or  twenty-five,  or  it  may  be  thirty  years  ago,  the 
landlord  of  the  Bush  tavern  in  Bristol,  England,  was  so  far  a 
benevolent  man,  that  on  every  Christmas-day  he  used  to  set  an 
immense  table,  at  which  whosoever  would  was  at  liberty  to  sit 
and  replenish  his  inner  man  with  as  much  roast  beef  and  plum- 
pudding  as  he  could  dispose  of,  a  privilege  of  which,  it  may  well 
be  supposed,  the  poor  of  that  ancient  and  by  no  means  elegant 
city  were  not  backward  to  avail  themselves.  But  the  dinner 
alone,  flanked  as  it  was  by  an  ad  libitum  distribution  of  stout  ale 
and  cider,  could  not  appease  the  generous  propensities  of  mine 
host  of  the  Bush ;  he  was  in  the  habit,  also,  of  giving  'away  a 
score  of  guineas,  upon  the  same  anniversary,  which  were  be 
stowed  in  small  sums  of  from  five  shillings  to  twenty,  upon 
such  of  the  free  guests  as  appeared  to  stand  most  in  need  of 
something  more  than  a  dinner. 

It  had  been  observed  for  some  weeks  toward  the  close  of  a 
particular  year,  which  I  do  not  remember,  that  an  elderly  person 
age,  whom  nobody  knew,  was  in  the  habit  of  stepping  into  the 


112  OLLAPOD1ANA. 

Bush  every  day,  and  taking  a  single  glass  of  brandy-and-water, 
with  which  he  contrived  to  dally  so  long  as  was  requisite  for  the 
thorough  perusal  of  a  London  paper,  brought  down  by  the  guard 
of  one  of  the  night  coaches.  A  London  paper  was  a  great  thing 
at  that  time,  in  Bristol.  The  gentleman  was  elderly,  as  I  have 
said  ;  and  moreover,  his  person  and  garb,  as  well  as  his  habits, 
gave  token  of  poverty.  He  was  thin,  and  apparently  feeble  ;  his 
coat  was  seedy,  his  hat  rusty,  his  nether  habiliments  thread-bare, 
and  otherwise  betokening  long  and  arduous  service ;  and  his  ex 
penditure  never  exceeded  the  sixpence  required  to  pay  for  the  one 
glass  of  brandy-and-water.  Nobody  seemed  to  know  him ;  and 
after  a  few  of  his  daily  calls,  he  came  to  be  recognised  by  the 
waiters  and  landlord,  with  that  happy  adaptation  of  names  for 
which  English  landlords  and  waiters  are  remarkable,  as  '  The  poor 
gentleman  that  reads  the  paper.' 

If  any  doubts  existed  as  to  his  poverty,  they  were  dispelled 
when  Christmas-day  arrived,  and  the  poor  gentleman  was  seen 
taking  his  place  at  the  long  table,  and  demolishing  an  ample  al 
lowance  of  the  beef  and  the  pudding,  for  which  there  was  nothing 
to  pay.  'Poor  fellow!'  soliloquized  the  landlord  of  the  Bush; 
*  I'm  sure  he  can't  afford  that  sixpence  every  day  for  his  brandy- 
and-water  ;  I  must  make  it  up  to  him  again.  His  measures  were 
accordingly  taken ;  John  the  waiter  had  his  instructions ;  and 
when  the  poor  gentleman  handed  his  plate  for  another  slice  of 
the  pudding,  a  guinea  was  slipped  into  his  hand,  with  the  whis 
pered,  '  Master's  compliments,  Sir,  and  says  this  will  do  to  lay 
in  some  winter  flannels  for  the  children.'  The  poor  gentleman 
looked  at  the  coin,  and  then  at  the  waiter ;  then  deposited  the 
first  in  the  right  hand  pocket  of  his  small  clothes  ;  and  then  drew 
forth  a  card  which  he  handed  to  John,  quietly  remarking :  '  My 
thanks  and  compliments  to  your  master,  and  tell  him  that  if  he 
ever  happens  to  come  my  way,  I  hope  he'll  call  upon  me.'  This 
was  the  card : 


THOMAS  COUTTS, 
59  STRAND, 

LONDON. 


The  '  poor  gentleman'  was  at  Bristol,  superintending  the  erec 
tion  of  some  thirty  or  forty  houses,  which  he  was  building  on 
speculation.  What  afterward  passed  between  him  and  the  land 
lord  of  the  Bush,  is  not  recorded ;  but  this  much  is  known,  that 


OLLAPODIANA.  113 

the  said  landlord  soon  after  engaged  very  largely  in  the  coaching 
business ;  that  his  drafts  on  Coutts  and  Co.,  the  great  bankers, 
were  always  duly  honored  ;  that  he  was  very  successful,  and  be 
came  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Bristol.  And  it  is  farther  said, 
that  the  identical  Christmas  guinea  is  still  in  the  possession  of 
the  *  poor  gentleman's'  widow,  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  St. 
Albans.  

AND  now,  Reader,  peace  be  with  you !     This  salutation  by 
the  hand  of  me,  OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER    TEN. 

February,  1836. 

THERE  is  a  pensive,  melancholy  feeling,  which  overpowers 
the  heart  of  a  resident  in  a  city,  when  he  goes  at  twilight  from 
the  scene  of  his  business  and  his  cares  to  the  fireside  of  home. 
As  he  passes  along  the  crowded  thoroughfare,  jostled  by  the 
hundreds  that  meet  him  ;  as  he  looks  forward  through  the  un 
certain  atmosphere,  to  forms  and  dwellings  dimly  descried,  by 
twinkling  lamps  in  the  distance,  and  sees  damp  walls  and  streets 
receding  from  his  footsteps  ;  he  falls  into  a  train  of  musing. 
How  many  deeds  does  the  night  bring  on  !  How  many  an  un 
suspected  and  impatient  eye  watches  the  golden  sun  go  down 
into  the  glowing  bosom  of  the  West ;  how  many  hearts  beat  high 
with  suspense  or  disquiet,  while  the  wan  twilight  deepens  into 
evening,  and  the  stars,  one  by  one,  glittering  like  diamonds 
through  the  infinite  air,  'set  their  watch  in  the  sky!'  The 
affianced  bride  waits  for  her  lover,  counting  the  footsteps  that  fall 
upon  the  pavement,  and  taxing  the  discipline  of  her  ready  ear 
with  the  task  of  decision  whether  they  be  his  or  no  ;  the  church 
goer  longs  for  the  bell,  whose  voice  proclaims  the  hallowed  hour 
of  prayer,  and  lingers  in  fond  solicitude  for  the  moment  when  the 
chapel-ward  step  shall  be  taken.  In  unnumbered  bosoms  are 
kindled  the  emotions  of  praise  ;  and  they  are  pure  and  holy. 
Nothing  can  exceed  the  beauty  of  a  truly  calm  and  chastened 
affection.  It  is  alike  lovely  when  bestowed  on  GOD  or  man. 
The  relinquishment  of  self;  the  trusting  dependence  on  the  Great 
Power  of  Nature ;  the  fond  aspirations  for  better  enjoyments ; 
these  are  the  true  solace  and  hope  of  mortality. 

For  one,  I  am  a  deep  lover  of  the  *  poetry  of  heaven.'  Deli 
cate  and  perfect  indeed  is  the  '  glitterance  of  the  stars.'  I  love  to 

8 


114  OLLAPODIANA. 

watch  their  birth  in  the  depths  of  the  evening  firmament ;  and  to- 
see  the  moon  walking  in  their  midst ;  the  Queen  of  the  Evening, 
whose  blue  pathway  glitters  with  the  fadeless  jewelry  of  the  uni 
verse.  Some  of  these  glorious  spheres  spring  with  their  holy 
lustre  upon  the  sight  with  the  quickness  of  thought,  blessing  the 
eye  with  their  sweet  radiance,  and  almost  haunting  the  ear  with 
that  music  which  seems  to  echo  from  that  dim  period  of  the  past, 
when  the  morning  stars  sang  together.  When  I  behold  them, 
devotional  feelings  possess  my  heart ;  and  I  go  back  on  the  wings 
of  memory  to  the  far  away  scenes  of  my  boyhood.  I  think 
again,  as  I  did  then,  that  all  created  things  make  melody  to  their 
GOD,  and,  singing  as  once  I  sung,  I  say  : 

ASK  of  the  ocean-waves  that  burst 

In  music  on  the  strand, 
Whose  murmurs  load  the  scented  breeze 

That  fans  the  Summer  land ; 
Why  is  their  harmony  abroad, 

Their  cadence  in  the  sky 
That  glitters  with  the  smile  of  GOD 

In  mystery  on  high  ? 

Question  the  cataract's  boiling  tide, 

Down  stooping  from  above, 
Why  its  proud  billows,  far  and  wide 

In  stormy  thunders  move  ? 
It  is  that  in  their  hollow  voice 

A  tone  of  praise  is  given, 
Which  bids  the  fainting  heart  rejoice, 

And  trust  THE  MIGHT  of  Heaven  ? 

And  ask  the  tribes  whose  matin  song 

Melts  on  the  dewy  air, 
Why,  like  a  stream  that  steals  along, 

Flow  forth  their  praises  there  ? 
Why,  when  the  veil  of  Eve  comes  down, 

With  all  its  starry  hours, 
The  night-bird's  melancholy  lay 

Rings  from  her  solemn  bowers  ? 

It  is  some  might  of  love  within, 

Some  impulse  from  on  high, 
That  bids  their  matin-song  begin, 

Or  fills  the  evening  sky 
With  gentle  echoes  all  its  own  ; 

With  sounds,  that  on  the  ear 
Fall,  like  the  voice  of  kindred  gone, 

Cut  off  in  Youth's  career! 

Ask  of  the  gales  that  sweep  abroad, 

When  Sunset's  fiery  wall 
Is  crowned  with  many  a  painted  cloud, 

A  gorgeous  coronal ; 


OLLAPODIANA.  115 

Ask  why  their  wings  are  trembling  then 

O'er  Nature's  sounding  lyre, 
While  the  far  occidental  hills 

Are  bathed  in  golden  fire  ? 

Oh !  shall  the  wide  world  raise  the  song 

Of  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 
And  shall  man's  heart  not  bid  his  tongue 

In  voiceful  praises  move  ? 
Shall  the  old  forest  and  the  wave, 

When,  summon'd  by  the  breeze, 
Yield  a  sweet  flow  of  solemn  praise, 

And  man  have  less  than  these  ? 

No  one,  I  fancy,  can  regard  the  wonderful  mechanism  of  the 
heavens,  or  the  revolutions  of  this  goodly  frame  the  earth,  without 
emotion.  I  at  least  cannot.  When  I  behold  the  moon,  coursing 
her  sweet  and  mysterious  way  through  the  azure  vault  of  evening, 
or  the  sun,  mounting  from  his  golden  tabernacle  of  morning 
clouds,  to  smile  from  the  zenith  upon  a  beautiful  world,  I  am 
filled  with  wonder  and  admiration.  The  coming  on  of  Spring, 
the  advent  and  departure  of  Summer,  are  to  me  scenes  and 
themes  of  amazing  thought.  Then,  how  solemnly  does  Autumn 
come  on  ;  rustling  his  sallow  leaf,  and  shaking  his  withered 
spray,  in  token  that  Winter  is  near  !  telling  the  heart,  as  Words 
worth  does  the  eye,  that 

'Summer  ebbs;  each  day  that  follows, 

Is  a  reflux  from  on  high, 
Tending  to  the  darksome  hollows, 
Where  the  frosts  of  Winter  lie.' 


I  VALUE  every  season  as  it  affords  me  subjects  for  reflection. 
New-Year's  day  is  fruitful  of  thought.  Standing  upon  the 
threshold  of  a  cycle,  we  look  forward  with  questioning  eyes  into 
the  unknown  future,  wondering1  what  it  may  bring  to  us  of  weal 
or  wo.  Merciful  is  the  cloud  that  hangs  over  that  untrodden 
way  ;  grateful  the  uncertainty  which  begirts  its  uninvestigated 
span.  Methinks  it  adds  a  fresher  glow  to  that  social  communion 
wherewith  we  greet  the  opening  year ;  that  it  gives  to  love  a 
holiness,  to  friendship  a  charm.  I  would  that  the  time-honored 
custom  of  Gotham  might  be  extended  through  the  Atlantic  cities  ; 
that  friends  might  be  gathered  together  around  each  other's  fire 
sides  at  the  morning  of  the  year,  there  to  renew  the  sweet  feel 
ings  and  generous  sympathies  of  life. 

It  is  the  renewal  of  precious  and  holy  feelings,  that  makes  the 
'new  year  in  New-York  so  delightful.  The  citizens  bid  a  truce 


116  OLLAPODIANA. 

to  care  ;  and  the  generous  principle  of  friendship  comes  fully 
into  play.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  custom  begins  to  radiate  from 
the  commercial  metropolis,  and  its  delights,  *  like  flower-seeds  by 
the  far  winds  sown,'  are  already  springing  up  in  other  towns.  I 
had  a  taste  of  them  at  the  commencement  of  this  present  year, 
in  the  Rectangular  City ;  enough  to  convince  me  that  the  mode 
is  germinating  freely,  and  will  soon  abundantly  fructify.  It  fell 
on  the  day  that  I  had  some  dozen  friends  to  visit ;  and  the  em 
ployment  was  truly  a  New-York  affair,  altogether.  One  hospi 
table  household,  well  known  for  the  kindness  of  its  members, 
and  the  regal  bounty  of  its  domestic  appointments,  conducted 
the  matter  in  veritable  Gotham  style.  On  a  table  which  groan 
ed — if  mahogany  can  groan  —  with  its  burden,  were  placed  all 
sorts  of  rich  edibles,  and  copious  excellences  of  great  variety, 
in  the  way  of  potation.  Many  were  the  pleasant-tasted  things 
that  reminded  me,  through  the  interpretation  of  the  palate,  that  I 
might  consider  myself  in  New-York  ;  and  as,  for  the  nonce,  '  I 
drained  huge  draughts  of  Rhenish  down,'  I  can  assure  the  reader 
that  the  American  London  was  '  in  my  flowing  cups  freshly  re 
membered.'  Great,  however,  is  the  stability  of  my  brain  ;  and 
so  it  was,  that  I  escaped  without  injury  ;  though  I  do  religiously 
believe,  that  should  '  some  persons'  imbibe  thus  much  of  things 
spiritual  and  substantial,  their  footsteps  would  indicate  a  know 
ledge  of  the  curvilinear  zig-zag. 

IT  is  right  wholesome  to  me,  to  perceive  the  effect  of  the  new 
year  on  an  old  bachelor.  His  forehead  wears  less  wrinkles  then, 
and  that  part  to  which  phrenologists  assign  the  organ  of  benevo 
lence,  seemeth  to  bulge,  as  it  were,  with  a  preternatural  expan 
sion.  He  becometh  frisky  ;  « takes  much  to  imbibe,'  and  thinks 
seriously  of  changing  his  condition.  I  never  knew  but  one,  that 
the  new  year  could  not  revivify,  and  he  was  a  biped  whom  long 
years  of  '  scoundrelizing'  had  indurated,  in  the  region  of  the 
heart,  to  perfect  ossification.  The  sarcophagus  of  a  mummy,  or 
the  flesh  of.  a  patriarchal  turkey,  the  cock  of  his  peculiar  walk  of 
life,  could  not  be  harder.  I  met  him,  « the  first  of  last  January 
was  a  year,'  as  they  say  in  Brotherly  Love.  '  Well,  Tompkins,' 
said  I,  '  your  bosom  friend  Jones  has  been  swept  away,  within 
the  past  year,  into  the  vortex  of  matrimony.'  *  Yes,'  said  he, 
with  some  such  a  grin  as  Satan  may  have  shed  upon  Ithuriel  in 
Paradise  ;  «  yes  ;  Tom  has  gone,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  don't 
know  why  I  should  be,  though  ;  for  he  never  did  me  any  injury  !' 
He  sported  this  remark  for  a  new  year's  original  ;  yet,  like  his 
wig,  I  believe  it  was  not  natural,  but  borrowed  for  the  occasion. 


OLLAPODIANA.  117 

IT  is  diverting  in  the  extreme  to  observe  the  pompous  grandil 
oquence  in  the  advertisements  of  the  amusement-furnishing  pub 
lic,  about  Christmas  and  New- Year.  Sublimity  glares  from  the 
theatrical  hand-bill,  and  the  menagerie  affiche.  Curiosities,  then, 
have  a  *  most  magnanimous  value.'  I  remember,  not  long  ago, 
that  I  desired  a  lovely  lady,  a  French  countess,  to  accompany 
me  to  a  Zoological  Institute,  to  behold  an  American  Eagle.  I 
was  pleased  at  the  expressed  wish  which  led  me  to  make  the  in 
vitation,  and  proud  of  the  prospect  of  showing  a  living  emblem 
of  our  country's  insignia  to  one  who  felt  an  interest  in  the  sub 
ject.  The  bills  of  the  institute  set  forth,  that  *  the  grand  Colum 
bia's  Eagle  was  the  monarch  of  its  tribe,  measuring  an  unprece 
dented  length  from  the  tip  of  one  wing  to  the  other,  in  full 
plumage,  and  vigor.'  The  countess  had  never  seen  but  one 
eagle,  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  at  Paris,  and  that  was  a  small 
one,  and  ungrown ;  so  that  her  anticipations  of  novelty  were  as 
great  as  mine.  We  went,  and  with  interesting  expectancy,  asked 
of  the  president  of  the  institute,  who  was  engaged  in  the  noble 
pursuit  of  feeding  a  sick  baboon  with  little  slips  of  cold  pork,  to 
discover  to  us  '  Columbia's  eagle.'  He  marshalled  us  to  the 
other  end  of  the  institute,  past  the  cages  of  lions,  bears,  libbards, 
and  other  animals  —  among  which  was  a  singular  quadruped, 
with  six  legs — to  the  cage  of  the  eagle.  '  There,'  he  exclaimed, 
with  professional  monotony,  '  there  is  the  proud  bird  of  our 
country,  that  was  caught  in  the  West,  and  has  been  thought  to 
have  killed  many  animals  in  his  life-time.  He  was  five  hours 
and  twenty-three  minutes  in  being  put  into  the  cage,  so  strong 
was  his  wings.  Look  at  him  clus.  He  '11  bear  inspection.  Jist 
obsarve  the  keen  Irish  of  his  eye.' 

An  involuntary  and  hearty  laugh  from  us  both,  followed  the 
sight,  and  the  announcement.  It  was  a  dismal  looking  bird, 
about  the  size  of  a  goodly  owl,  with  a  crest-fallen  aspect,  the 
feathers  of  the  tail  and  wings  dwindled  to  a  few  ragged  quills  ; 
and  the  shivering  fowl,  standing  on  one  leg,  looked  with  a  vacant, 
spectral  eye  at  his  visiters.  Nothing  could  be  so  perfectly  bur 
lesque,  and  we  enjoyed  it  deeply  and  long.  I  shall  never  be  de 
ceived  by  show-bills  again.  

APROPOS  of  holidays.  To  the  young  and  light-hearted,  they 
are  what  they  seem.  To  those  who  have  passed  the  purple  and 
flowery  boundaries  of  minority,  that  '  infancy'  of  law,  they  are 
forbidden  gardens  of  pleasure,  whose  fruitage  is  only  for  the  eye. 
To  the  adult,  it  is  a  season  of  preparation  for  the  payment  of 
bills — or  Williams ,  as  they  should  be  more  classically  denomi- 


118  OLLAPODIANA. 

nated —  that  fall  due  on  or  about  the  first  of  the  year.  These 
absorb  his  soul.  The  mercer,  the  bottler,  the  manufacturer  of 
those  glossy  receptacles  which  environ  the  chamber  of  the  soul, 
all  such  send  in  their  accumulated  williams,  until  the  sight  thereof 
astounds  the  receiver.  Forthwith  he  sets  about  defraying  the 
same  ;  and  great  is  his  satisfaction  when  he  says  eurelca  !  of  their 
end.  I  have  a  *  contemporary,'  if  he  be  yet  alive,  sojourning  in 
foreign  lands,  who  was  once  visited,  about  Christmas,  by  the 
senior  of  the  firm  of  *  Wright,  Wright  and  Wiggins,  mercers, 
drapers,  and  fabricators  of  good  habits.'  The  elder  of  the 
house  —  a  fat  and  burly  biped,  with  a  turnip  countenance,  and 
nose  of  extraordinary  redness — bore  to  Wilkins  his  bill.  Wil- 
kins  was  oblivious. 

*  Can  you  tell  me,  my  dear  Sir,  where  you  have  ever  seen  me 
before?' 

*  Certainly — yes,  Sir — I  can.     You  are  a  customer  of  ours, 
at street,  27.     Here  's  your  bill.' 

<  Ah — so  it  is  :  Wright,  you  are  right.  But,  my  dear  Sir, 
there  is  one  trifling  circumstance  connected  with  this  bill,  which 
makes  it  a  little  awkward.  I  have  not  the  wherewithal  to  settle 
it.  This  is  the  only  obstacle  in  the  way,  at  present.  I  do  not 
quote  often  ;  but  you  will  perhaps  allow  me,  on  this  occasion,  to 
observe,  in  the  language  of  the  cockney  to  Mathews'  cab-driver : 
'  I  han't  not  got  no  money  whatsomdever  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is 
quite  the  rewaase.'  Beside,  my  friend,  I  have  a  plan  from  which 
I  never  depart,  in  the  cancelling  of  my  leger-liabilities.  I  pay 
my  blank-book  demands  alphabetically.  Your  firm  is  Wright, 
Wright  and  Wiggins.  The  plan  strikes  you,  I  see,  visibly;  and 
its  propriety  is  as  clear,  seemingly,  to  you,  as  the  light  on  a  lily, 
in  the  spring-time,  or  the  glow  on  the  red  side  of  a  bursted 
peach,  in  October.  The  divine  thought  touches  you  nearly,  and 
you  acquiesce,  evidently.  Adios,  my  friend :  as  soon  as  I 
reach  your  name  in  my  payments,  some  ten  months  hence,  I  will 
advise  you  promptly.  .  I  say  this,  with  a  difficult  nerve  ;  but  I 
trust  you  twig  me  decidedly.  I  mean  as  I  say.  Good  morn 
ing —  good  morning  !'  

READER,  since  I  last  communed  with  thee,  the  despot  Sick 
ness  has  held  me  in  subjection.  I  have  had  dull  days,  and  weary 
nights  ;  but  my  books  have  been  companions,  and  I  have  had, 
beside,  friends  and  newspapers.  I  mention  this  thing,  partly  to 
excuse  my  brevity,  and  lack  of  variety,  and  also  as  a  prelude  to 
this  piece  of  advice  :  Lend  not  thy  umbrella,  nor  suffer  thou  it  to 
be  stolen  from  thee.  In  this  wise,  did  I  procure  my  indisposi- 


OLLAPODIANA.  119 

tion.  The  night  was  dark,  the  rains  descended ;  the  floods  came, 
and  beat  against  me;  the  umbrella  was  loaned  —  it  has  never 
come  home.  Heaven  forgive  the  borrower  !  There  are  some 
who  do  not  even  borrow  this  in-rainy-weather-much-to-be-desired- 
and-requisite  article.  They  steal  it,  without  compunction.  I 
lately  heard  a  man  of  GOD,  at  a  Wesleyan  conventicle,  deliver 
the  following  speech  from  the  altar  :  *  I  would  ad'nounce  to  the 
cod'ngregation,  that,  prebably  by  mistake,  there  was  left  at  this 
house  of  prayer,  this  morning,  a  small  cotton  umbrella,  much 
damaged  by  time  and  tear,  and  of  an  exceeding-fy  pale  blue 
color,  in  the  place  whereof  was  taken  a  very  large  black  silk 
umbrella,  new,  and  of  great  beauty.  I  say,  my  brethren,  it  was 
prebably  by  mistake,  that  of  these  articles,  the  one  was  taken  and 
the  other  left ;  though  it  is  a  very  improper  mistake,  and  should 
be  discountenanced,  if  possible.  Blunders  of  this  sort,  brethren 
and  sisters,  are  getting  a  leetle  too  common !' 
Pas  encore,  a  present,  cher  lecteur. 


NUMBER     ELEVEN. 

March,  1836. 

GLORIOUS  BELLINI  !  I  have  been  listening  for  many  pleas 
ant  evenings  past,  to  the  sweet  creations  of  that  composer's  mind. 
How  sad  that  he  died  so  young  !  Only  twenty-eight,  when  the 
shroud  was  wrapped  around  his  bosom,  and  his  tuneless  ear  laid 
beneath  the  coffin-lid !  But  the  harmonies  he  conceived,  will 
linger  in  holy  sweetness,  while  taste  shall  last;  and  many  an  un 
born  enthusiast  will  yet  live  to  bless  his  name.  How  touching 
and  beautiful  are  the  tender  sentences  that  drop  in  melody  from 
the  lips  of  Count  Rodolpho,  in  La  Somnambula  !  With  what  a 
divine  diapason  do  the  following  words,  and  the  chorus  that  ac 
companies  them,  fall  on  the  ear  !  They  are  the  by-gone  thoughts 
of  one  who  has  long  been  absent  from  his  youthful  home,  on 
again  finding  himself  amidst  the  well  known  scenes  of  his  dear 
native  village.  Filled  with  melancholy  rapture  at  the  sight  of 
that  which  he  has  gained,  and  troubled  with  recollections  of  what 
.he  has  lost,  he  exclaims : 

*  SCENES  of  Beauty  !  full  well  I  know  ye  — 
Many  moments  of  joy  I  owe  ye  ; 

Of  pleasures  banished, 

Of  days  long  vanished ; 
Oh !  my  breast  is  filled  with  pain, 
Finding  objects,  that  still  remain, 
While  those  days  come  not  again  /' 


120  OLLAPODIANA. 

I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  that  last  line  haunts  my  ear  contin 
ually.  Reader,  if  you  are  now  old,  you  have  once  been  young ; 
if  young,  you  know  what  I  mean,  when  I  speak  of  that  Golden 
Age,  our  early  days.  Time,  as  we  pass  onward  to  that  outer 
gate  which  swings  open  into  eternity,  may  give  us  many  enjoy 
ments,  but  they  are  satisfaction  merely;  tame,  passive  satisfac 
tion.  Troubles  fall  upon  us  like  a  brutum  fulmen ;  incidents 
that  would  stir  the  young  heart  to  sympathy  and  sorrow,  occur  to  • 
the  middle-aged  without  notice  or  distress.  How  often  have  I 
read,  with  supreme  delight,  that  beautiful  poem  of  Gray's,  sug 
gested  by  a  survey  of  his  boyhood's  school,  and  the  scenes  it 
embraced,  at  Eton : 

'An!  happy  hills  —  ah!  pleasing  shades, 

Ah  !  fields,  beloved  in  vain, 
Where  once  ray  careless  childhood  stray'd, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 

My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  sooth, 
And  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  Spring.* 

For  my  own  part,  I  love  to  renew  the  memories  of  my  fresher 
hours,  at  all  times.  I  am  glad  to  escape  from  the  present  to  the 
past ;  for  we  know  what  we  have  been  in  happiness,  but  not 
what  we  shall  be.  Give  me  a  draft  on  the  great  bank  of  by-gone 
time,  rather  than  on  the  future.  Truth  to  say,  however,  a  coun 
try  life  is  no  scene  in  which  to  gain  a  taste  for  music.  I  know 
this  well.  The  splendid  opera,  the  gay  assembly,  the  intoxi 
cating  waltz,  are  there  almost  unknown.  How  imperceptibly 
does  our  admiration  of  an  opera  grow  upon  us  !  Sound  after 
sound,  solo  after  solo,  duet  after  duet,  fall  upon  the  ear  as  if  they 
were  trifles ;  by-and-by  we  love  them  ;  they  adhere  to  our 
thoughts — we  deem  them  divine.  They  associate  themselves 
with  early  recollections  :  we  think  of  the  golden  evening  sunlight 
that  played  upon  the  landscapes  of  youth  ;  of  early  affections 
and  hopes  ;  of  the  loving  ones  that  are  distant — the  dear  ones 
that  have  died.  Precious  in  the  human  soul,  is  the  fountain  of 
remembrance  ! 

BUT  a  taste  for  music  may  be  carried  too  far.  I  hate  your 
singing  bore,  your  man  of  crotchets  and  quavers,  with  big  eyes, 
who  is  evermore  seeking  an  opportunity  to  execute  his  song ; 
who  troubles  diners-out  for  their  insincere  applause,  and  mis 
taking  jest  for  praise,  tunes  his  throat  anew,  runs  up  his  voice 


OLLAPODIANA.  121 

* 

into  the  affected  falsetto,  and  discourses  ill-timed  harmonies,  in 
the  tone  of  *  the  eunuch's  pipe !'  I  hate  such  bipeds,  ab  imo 
yectore.  I  dislike,  also,  discordant  associations  for  music.  They 
are  like  Thespian  societies  —  great  afflictions.  I  once  had  a 
friend  —  a  highly  respectable  youth,  of  excellent  family — who 
acquired  a  penchant  for  doing  the  Roscius,  in  a  small  dramatic 
volunteer  company.  He  did  enact  many  parts,  and  was  some 
times  vehemently  applauded  by  the  free-admission  boobies  who 
flocked  to  such  exhibitions.  At  last  he  became  stage-mad,  step 
ped  incontinently  into  the  buskin,  made  a  western  tour,  and  re 
turned  to  his  native  city,  a  legitimate  loafer,  with  all  the  external 
credentials  of  that  multitudinous  tribe.  I  encountered  him  not 
many  months  ago,  negotiating  with  the  landlord  at  a  hotel,  where 
I  called  to  greet  a  travelling  friend,  in  the  following  words :  '  I 
say,  publican,  mayhap  you  know  me  not.  I  am  every  inch  a 
king.  As  Shakspeare  says,  '  I  am  myself  alone,'  and  was  n't 
Shakspeare  a  screamer?  What  I  wish  to  say,  can  be  told 
shortly.  '  Much  misery  can  be  let  on  in  a  few  words,'  as  Mrs. 
Haller  says  in  the  Stranger.  I  am  a  little  confused  just  now ; 
for  truth  to  tell,  I  have  taken  a  little  potation  this  morning  :  but 
though  I  seem  confused,  I  know  you  will  look  it  over,  from  one 
who  is  really  '  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.'  What  I  wish 

to  say  is  this.     You  know  me.     I  am  the  son  of  General , 

a  well  known,  but  not  a  '  greasy  citizen.'  I  wish  to  make  ar 
rangements  with  you  for  the  purchase  of  a  glass  of  eau  de  vie,  at 
a  liberal  credit.  I  throw  myself  upon  your  indulgence,  and  so 
licit  straight  for  the  privilege  of  'running  my  face'  for  the  liquor 
aforesaid.  Will  you  comply?  Do  for  once — just  for  gran 
deur.' 

The  publican,  after  complimenting  the  father  of  the  prodigal, 
respectfully  declined,  and  the  votary  of  Thespis  abdicated. 

SPEAKING  of  the  music  which  is  apt  ordinarily  to  greet  one's 
ears  in  the  country,  the  tuneful  Beattie,  in  his  Minstrel,  discour- 
seth  thereupon  with  most  melodious  unction.  It  is  indeed  sweet, 
as  he  avers,  to  listen  to  the  harmonies  of  morning,  when  the  sun 
sits  upon  the  highmost  hill  of  journey ;  when  the  freshness  of 
night  mingles  with  the  bland  atmosphere  of  the  day  ;  when  the 
groves  are  vocal,  and  the  floods  clap  their  hands.  But  there  is 
much  more  music  in  a  city,  notwithstanding  we  miss  therein 
that  magnificent  organ-sound  of  commingling  woods  and  waters 
which  give  their  voices  to  the  gale ;  that  grand  and  viewless  in 
strument,  whose  ventiges  are  governed  by  the  fingers  of  the 
Eternal.  The  denizen  of  a  metropolis  must  have  indeed  a  busy 


122  OLLAPODIANA. 

I 

ear,  to  devour  all  the  musical  discourse  with  which  the  air  at 
morning  is  rife  around  him.  In  the  town  of  Brotherly  Love  — 
I  speak  to  those  who  know  —  what  sounds  vibrate  upon  the  tym 
panum  !  Who  has  not  heard  the  sable  vender  of  ground  corn 
exclaim  :  '  Come  and  buy  my  ho-mi-ny  —  oh,  ye-ep  !' — or  the 
improvisatore  who  sells 

'  Brick-dust  from  Brandywine, 
Both  ni-i-ce  and  fi-n-ne  !' 

Or  that  peripatetic  individual  who  goeth  about  with  his  axe  and 
wedges,  keeping  time  as  they  strike  together,  to  the  sonorous 
ejaculation  :  *  Ah  'split-wood  !'      These  are  familiar  minstrels  ; . 
and  those  who  pass  them  in  the  street  —  especially  if  they  are 
interested  —  listen  attentively  while  the  speech  drops  upon  them. 

MANY  chapters  have  been  written  against  early  rising  in  cities. 
I  like  it  much  in  theory,  but  it  is  detestable  in  practice.  In  the 
country,  'tis  a  joy  to  rise  early.  Once,  under  some  casual  in 
spiration,  from  this  cause,  I  scribbled  thus.  Reader,  take  it  for 
'better  or  for  worse  : 

STANZAS. 

'  Awake  psaltery  and  harp  :  I  myself  will  awake  early.1 

WAKE,  when  the  mists  of  the  blue  mountains  sleeping, 

Like  crowns  of  glory  in  the  distance  lie  ; 
When  breathing  from  the  South,  o'er  blossoms  sweeping, 

The  gale  bears  music  through  the  sunny  sky ; 
While  lake  and  meadow,  upland,  grove  and  stream, 
Smile  like  the  glory  of  an  Eden  dream. 

Wake  while  unfettered  thoughts,  like  treasures  springing, 

Bid  the  heart  leap  within  its  prison-cell ; 
When  birds  and  brooks  through  the  pure  air  are  flinging 

The  mellow  chant  of  their  beguiling  spell; 
When  earliest  winds  their  anthems  have  begun, 
And,  incense-laden,  their  sweet  journeys  run. 

Then,  psaltery  and  harp,  a  tone  awaken, 

Whereto  the  echoing  bosom  shall  reply, 
As  earth's  rich  scenes,  by  shadowy  night  forsaken, 

Unfold  their  beauty  to  the  filling  eye : 
When,  like  the  restless  breeze,  or  wild-bird's  lay, 
Pure  thoughts,  on  dove-like  pinions,  float  away. 

Wake  thou,  too,  man,  when  from  refreshing  slumber, 

And  thy  luxurious  couch,  thou  dost  arise, 
Thanks  for  life's  golden  gifts — a  countless  number — 

Calm  dreams,  and  soaring  hopes,  and  summer  skies  : 
Wake  !  —  let  thy  heart's  fine  chords  be  touched  in  praise, 
While  the  pure  light  of  morn  around  thee  plays! 


OLLAPODIANA.  123 

BUT  much  as  I  love  the  waking  of  the  morning,  I  love  also  its 
rest.  Of  all  visions,  those  are  loveliest  which  come  upon  our 
imaginations  in  the  morning  watch.  Already  fresh  and  invigor 
ated  with  rest,  the  mind  revels  in  its  fanciful  creations.  How 
many  golden  cities,  and  glorious  landscapes,  and  worlds  of 
changeful  waters,  flecked  with  green  and  blue,  have  I  seen  in  my 
dreams  !  Oh  delicious  Sleep  !  Thou  art  indeed  the  world's 
Spanish  cloak,  and  with  thy  sister  Night,  thou  wrappest  the  care 
worn  bosom  in  indolent  repose.  Republican  and  Democratic 
Sleep !  Thou  hast  no  predilections  for  parties.  Thou  de- 
scendest  as  soon  upon  an  old  Federalist,  as  his  opponent — upon 
a  Mason  or  an  anti-Mason,  as  upon  the  tabby  that  slumbers  by 
the  farmer's  fire.  Thou  hast  no  balm  for  favorites,  save  that  thy 
wing  is  spread  the  soonest  over  the  brow  of  the  husbandman,  and 
the  heart  of  the  weary.  Thou  art  terrible  alone  to  the  over-rich 
and  the  over-guilty.  To  the  dyspeptic  maid,  whose  nights  are 
spent  in  the  dissipation  of  parties,  and  amidst  the  hot  air  of 
crowded  assemblies  —  to  her  thou  art  a  burden.  To  the  young, 
the  gay,  the  country-born,  thou  art  altogether  delightsome. 

THERE  is  one  place  where  sleep  is-  uncomely  —  namely,  in  a 
church.  But,  dear  reader,  there  are  some  somniferous  men  of 
GOD,  whose  words  fall  upon  you  like  so  many  poppies.  Their 
languid  sentences  come  from  the  *  ancient  nose,  all  spectacle-be- 
strid,'  with  such  a  drowsy  twang,  that  they  are  irresistible  stupi- 
fiers.  I  listened  of  late  to  such  a  one.  He  never  finished  a 
sentence.  '  My  friends,'  he  would  say,  '  I  wish  to  address  you 
upon  the  importance  of.  It  is  a  subject  of  great  importance, 
and  it  is  one  which.  When  I  say  that  it  is  subject  of  importance, 
I  mean  to  infer  that  it  is  important  to  the  individual  who.  And 
when  that  individual  declines  observing  this  subject,  he  has  reach 
ed  that  state  of  moral  turpitude,  when.  Hence  we  view,  that  he 
becomes  associated  with  those  that,  on  account  of  the  deceitful- 
ness  of  the  world,  are  corrupted  by  /' 

IF  you  do  not  doze,  reader,  over  that  last  sentence,  I  shall  be 
prepared  hereafter  to  repay  your  lively  spirit  with  better  things. 
This  cold  winter  has  congealed  all  my  better  thoughts.  I  shall 
thaw  into  soul  and  sentiment,  when  the  spring-time  comes. 


124  OLLAPODIANA, 


NUMBER     TWELVE. 

April,  1836. 

I  CONCEIVE  it  a  great  plague  to  be  one's  own  hero,  and  to  be 
the  describer  in  the  first  person  singular  of  individual  adventures. 
Those  two  great  personages,  Says  He  and  Says  I,  are  no  par 
ticular  favorites  of  mine.  They  are  great  draw-backs  in  these 
my  sketches  ;  for,  reader,  I  am,  at  bottom,  a  modest  and  retiring 
man.  Therefore  should  I  desire  in  papers  like  these,  were  it 
right  practicable,  to  sink  the  personal,  and  expand  into  the  general. 
Reflection  convinces  me,  howbeit,  that  this  would  not  do.  What 
I  have  to  say,  or  to  sketch,  would  then  be  without  form  and  void. 
No ;  give  me  my  way  ;  let  me  disport  as  I  will,  and  I  warrant 
me  there  shall  be  something  in  what  I  write,  which  will  warm  the 
heart,  or  light  the  eye  of  him  that  reads  me. 


TALKING  of  a  man's  making  a  hero  of  himself,  reminds  me 
of  an  old  friend  of  mine,  who  is  fond  of  telling  long  stories  about 
fights  and  quarrels  that  he  has  had  in  his  day,  and  who  always 
makes  his  hearer  his  opponent  for  the  time,  so  as  to  give  effect 
to  what  he  is  saying.  Not  long  ago  I  met  him  on  'Change,  at  a 
business  hour,  when  all  the  commercing  multitudes  of  the  city 
were  together,  and  you  could  scarcely  turn,  for  the  people.  The 
old  fellow  fixed  his  eye  on  me  ;  there  was  a  fatal  fascination  in 
it.  Getting  off  without  recognition,  would  have  been  unpardon 
able  disrespect.  In  a  moment,  his  finger  was  in  my  button-hole, 
and  his  rheumy  optics  glittering  with  the  satisfaction  of  your  true 
lore,  when  he  has  met  with  an  unresisting  subject.  I  listened  to 
his  common-places  with  the  utmost  apparent  satisfaction.  Di 
rectly,  he  began  to  speak  of  an  altercation  which  he  once  had 
with  an  officer  in  the  navy.  He  was  relating  the  particulars* 
'  Some  words,'  said  he,  '  occurred  between  him  and  me.  Now 
you  know  that  he  is  a  much  younger  man  than  I  am  ;  in  fact, 
about  your  age.  Well,  he  '  made  use  of  an  expression1  which  I 
did  not  exactly  like.  Says  I  to  him,  says  I,  *  What  do  you  mean 
by  that  ?'  '  Why,'  says  he  to  me,  says  he,  *  I  mean  just  what  I 
say.'  Then  I  began  to  burn.  There  was  an  impromptu  eleva 
tion  of  my  personal  dandrifF,  which  was  unaccountable.  I 
didn't  waste  words  on  him  ;  I  just  took  him  in  this  way,'  (here 
the  old  spooney  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  by  seizing  the  collar 
of  my  coat,  before  the  assemblage,)  *  and  says  I  to  him,  says  I,, 


OLLAPODIANA.  125 

*  You  infernal  scoundrel,  I  will  punish  you  for  your  insolence  on 
the  spot!'  and  the  manner  in  which  I  shook  him  (just  in  this 
way)  was  really  a  warning  to  a  person  similarly  situated.' 

I  felt  myself  at  this  moment  in  a  beautiful  predicament :  in  the 
midst  of  a  large  congregation  of  business  people  ;  an  old  gray- 
headed  man  hanging,  with  an  indignant  look,  at  my  coat-collar  ; 
.and  a  host  of  persons  looking  on.  The  old  fellow's  face  grew 
redder  every  minute  ;  but  perceiving  that  he  was  observed, 
he  lowered  his  voice  in  the  detail,  while  he  lifted  it  in  the 
worst  places  of  his  colloquy.  *  You  infernal  scoundrel,  and 
caitiff,  and  villain,'  says  I,  *  what  do  you  mean,  to  insult  an  elderly 
person  like  myself,  in  a  public  place  like  this  ?'  and  then,  said 
he,  lowering  his  malapropos  voice,  *  then  I  shook  him,  so.9 

Here  he  pushed  me  to  and  fro,  with  his  septuagenarian  gripe 
on  my  collar,  as  if  instead  of  a  patient,  much  bored  friend,  I 
was  his  deadly  enemy.  When  he  let  go,  I  found  myself  in  a 
ring  of  spectators.  *  Shame,  shame !  to  insult  an  old  man  like 
him  !'  was  the  general  cry.  '  Young  puppy  !'  said  an  elderly 
merchant,  whose  good  opinion  was  my  heart's  desire,  '  what 
excuse  have  you  for  your  conduct  ?' 

Thus  was  I  made  a  martyr  to  my  good  feelings.  I  have  never 
recovered  from  the  stigma  of  that  interview.  I  have  been  pointed 
at  in  the  street  by  persons  who  have  said  as  I  passed  them, 

4  That 's  the  young  chap  that  insulted  old  General ,  at 

the  Exchange  !'  

THIS  same  venerable  gentleman  once  troubled  me  with  his 
augur-ies,  in  the  following  manner.  He  accosted  me,  up  town, 
a  mile,  I  suppose,  from  the  Exchange.  '  My  good  friend,'  he 
said,  '  I  wish  you  to  go  with  me  to  the  City  Reading  Room,  and 
look  at  a  contribution  that  I  have  published  in  one  of  the  news 
papers.  I  dare  say  it  is  open  to  criticism.  Mind  you,  I  am  not 
a  man  of*1  letters.  I  am  doing  a  snug,  winding-up  business  in  my 
latter  days,  and  I  cannot  serve  twro  masters.'  I  accompanied 
him  :  he  sought  out  the  paper  file,  and  after  much  research, 
turned  to  the  following : 

*  SHAD.  —  Now  landing,  several  barrels  of  Shad.  The  barrels  is  new,  and 
the  shad  are  fresh.  For  sale  by ,  No.  85 street.' 

*  Now,'  said  he, '  will  you  tell  we  whether  '  barrels  is'  is  right  ? 
Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  have  used  the  subjunctive  mood  in 
the  future  tense,  and  said  '  the  barrels  are,'  and  cetera  ?  I  don't 
feel  sure,  myself;  I  just  want  your  opinion.  I  know,  you  know  ; 
but  I  want  to  be  positive' 


126  OLLAPODIANA. 

I  elucidated  the  matter  to  him  as  plainly  as  I  could,  and  left 
him ;  inly  resolving,  that  if  ever  I  saw  him  approaching  me  in 
the  street  again,  I  would  take  to  my  heels  and  run  like  an  ex 
press  to  get  out  of  his  way. 

I  SHOULD  like  to  write  a  chapter  on  bores.  There  are  distinct 
classes  of  them,  and  it  requires  a  philosophical  mind  to  furnish, 
proper  analyses  of  the  varying  genus.  The  man,  for  instance, 
who  meets  you  going  to  bank,  or  to  dinner,  and  begins  to  talk 
to  you  of  matters  and  things  in  general,  whereunto  you  are,  for 
politeness'  sake,  compelled  to  listen,  what  a  plague  he  is,  to  be, 
sure !  He  has  no  heart.  He  listens  to  the  loquacity  of  your 
diaphragm  with  perfect  composure,  though  it  speak  of  wants  un 
satisfied,  and  viands  in  expectancy.  He  holdeth  converse  with 
nonentity  ;  he  keepeth  you  in  suspense,  by  leaving  his  sentences- 
unfinished  ;  and  he  taxeth  your  imagination  with  wonder  as  to 
what  the  devil  he  will  have  to  say  next.  You  go  home  to  a  late 
and  cold  dinner,  with  your  whole  body  in  a  state  of  grumbling 
dissatisfaction.  You  feel  as  if  you  could  knock  down  your 
grandfather.  In  short,  you  feel  as  every  man  does,  when  he  has. 
been  bored.  It  is  an  awful  sensation.  Sea-sickness  is  pleasure 
to  it.  Should  I  hereafter  describe  this  class,  I  fear  I  shall  give 
them  a  Rembrandt  coloring  ;  for  I  am  confident,  from  the  wrongs 
they  have  done  me,  that  I  could  not  speak  of  them  with  my 
customary  coolness  and  impartiality. 

BY-THE-BY,  the  word  impartiality  reminds  me.  of  a  legal 
biped,  who  possessed  this  quality  *  to  a  degree.'  Reader,  you 
don't  know  the  Hon.  Abednego  Babcock,  do  you  ?  Taking  it 
for  granted  that  you  do  not,  I  will  describe  him  to  you.  Like- 
Wouter  Van  Twiller,  he  is  about  five  feet  six  inches  high,  and 
six  feet  five  inches  in  circumference.  He  potates  considerably, 
and  in  that  way  has  nursed  for  himself  a  nasal  organ*  of  most 
scarlet  rubicundity.  It  is  a  sign,  as  I  call  it,  of  *  grog  manifest 
in  the  flesh.'  He  is  a  man  of  many  friends  among  pot-house- 
lawyers  and  small  politicians.  He  has  never  been  known,  I  be 
lieve,  to  give  a  decided  opinion  on  any  subject.  I  once  heard 
him  charge  a  jury  something  after  this  fashion : 

1  Gentlemen :  This  is  an  action  brought  by  the  plaintiff  against 
the  defendant.  You  have  heard  the  evidence  on  both  sides,  and 
the  court  know  of  no  points  of  law  that  you  may  not  be  supposed 
to  understand  already.  The  case  is  a  very  plain  one  ;  and  if, 
upon  a  careful  review  of  the  testimony,  you  should  think  the 


OLLAPODIANA.  127 

plaintiff  entitled  to  a  verdict,  the  decision  must  be  in  his  favor ; 
but  if,  on  the  contrary,  it  should  appear  that  the  defendant  ought 
to  be  the  plaintiff  in  this  suit,  you  will  please  bring  in  a  bill  to 
that  effect.  I  believe  that  is  about  all  that  is  to  be  said  in  the 
matter.  If  you  can  think  of  any  thing  else  that  I  ought  to  say, 
I  have  no  objection  to  mention  it.  It  is  now  my  dinner  hour. 
Swear  a  constable.' 

This  was  the  usual  impartiality  of  Abednego  Babcock,  Esq. 
He  would  sit  for  hours  on  the  bench,  feeling  the  customary  blos 
soms  on  his  nose  with  his  affectionate  fingers  ;  an  employment 
which  evidently  gave  him  great  satisfaction.  They  do  say  that 
whenever  a  flatulent  attorney  speaks  before  him,  he  drops  right 
to  sleep.  He  says  a  hundred  yards  of  gab,  as  he  classically 
calls  it,  could  not  change  his  mind,  when  he  has  it  made  up. 
He  despises  every  thing  high-flown,  or,  as  he  sometimes  terms 
it,  hypherflutenated ;  and  thinks  that,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
a  cause  can  be  best  decided  by  hearing  only  one  side. 

APROPOS  of  the  bar.  What  a  deal  of  bad  oratory  there  is 
about  it !  I  have  one  or  two  good  friends  among  the  lawyers  in 
Gotham  who  could  depict  these  grandiloquent  attorneys  to  the 
life.  How  much  verbose  pomposity  of  language,  too,  do  you 
find  in  the  pulpit,  where,  of  all  other  places,  it  is  most  out  of 
place.  A  few  days  ago,  I  heard  an  unhewn  *  Ambassador  from 
the  court  of  Heaven,'  as  he  credentialized  himself,  who  had 
taken  the  far  west  in  his  route  to  the  church  where  I  heard  him, 
use  the  following  burst.  He  was  speaking  of  Judas  and  Bene 
dict  Arnold  ;  worthies  whom  he  compared  together.  *  Arnold/ 
said  he,  *  was  a  traitor,  of  whom  you  may  have  heard,  who  tried 
for  to  sell  his  TcecFntry.  It  was  the  ruination  of  him,  and  for  what 
he  done,  he  will  be  rewarded  with  infamy  ;  for  his  name  will 
sertingly  go  down  to  the  most  remotest  posterity,  kivered  all  over 
with  Hell's  arsenic  !'  Here  he  looked  round  upon  his  audience 
with  an  air  of  pride,  as  if  he  would  say,  '  There  's  a  touch  for 
you !'  


SPEAKING  of  clerical  oratory,  bids  me  think  of  an  event  I  wit-' 
nessed  lately  in  an  Episcopal  conventicle.  The  morning  service 
had  been  said  ;  the  rich  tones  of  the  organ  were  mellowing  away 
into  silence,  when  the  speaker  arose,  and  named  his  text,  in  these 
simple  words  :  '  Jesus  wept.1  He  spoke  in  a  strain  of  touching 
simplicity  ;  he  painted  the  sorrows  of  the  SAVIOR  at  the  death, 
of  Lazarus ;  and  he  described  in  beautiful  language  the  propriety 


128  OLLAPODIANA. 

of  his  grief,  by  enlarging  upon  that  inevitable  condition  of  mor 
tality  which  causes  all  to  grieve.  By  and  by  I  heard  a  faint 
moan.  A  young  and  tender-hearted  mother,  who  had  but  a  few 
weeks  before  buried  a  blooming  daughter,  the  darling  of  her  love, 
overcome  by  her  feelings,  had  fainted  away.  But  it  was  no  bois 
terous  or  harrowing  language,  that  thus  stirred  within  her  the  holy 
fountain  of  a  mother's  affection.  It  was  the  words  of  simplicity 
that  fell  upon  her  ear,  and  trembled  in  her  bosom.  The  circum 
stance  revived  in  my  mind  the  memory  of  a  sermon — the  off 
spring  of  untutored  genius  —  which  I  heard  in  early  youth. 
The  preacher  was  an  unlettered  woodsman,  but  he  spoke  with 
correctness,  with  eloquence.  The  occasion  was  the  funeral  of  a 
child.  The  boy,  a  lad  of  four  or  five  years  old,  lay  on  the  bier 
before  him ;  His  fair  cheeks  had  not  lost  their  rosy  red,  and  his 
little  form,  so  decently  composed  in  the  white  garments  of  the 
grave,  looked  far  too  dainty  for  the  earth  to  cover.  The  speaker 
took  his  text  from  the  touching  story  of  Gehazi  and  the  Shuna- 
mite,  I  forget  the  place  where  it  is  to  be  found.  *  And  he  said 
to  the  mother,  Is  it  well  with  thee  ?  Is  it  well  with  thy  husband  ? 
Is  it  well  with  thy  child  ?  And  she  answered,  It  is  well.1  He 
went  on  to  show  his  hearers,  that  in  the  case  before  them,  it  was 
*  well  with  the  child  :'  and  beautifully  did  he  prove  it.  My  heart 
swells  yet,  at  the  mere  remembrance  of  that  sermon.  '  Mother,' 
he  said,  *  do  you  mourn  for  the  child  that  has  fallen  like  a  blos 
som  from  youj  arms  ?  Weep  not,  for  it  is  well.  He  has  escaped 
the  darkness  of  earthly  sorrow ;  the  clouds  that  day  by  day 
would  have  rolled  gradually  over  his  spirit ;  the  crosses  of  exis 
tence  ;  the  gloom  that  follows  after  that  golden  age,  ere  the  life 
of  life  begins  to  fail  and  fade  ;  he  has  missed  all  these,  and  in 
that  *  better  country,'  where  his  FATHER  and  our  FATHER  smiles 
upon  him,  his  innocent  spirit  is  at  rest.  Fond  mother !  distrust  not 
thy  GOD.  Lift  thy  heart-warm  prayer  to  HIM  in  the  night- 
watches  ;  and  as  thou*  implorest  consolation,  thou  mayest  ask  thy 
GOD,  <  Is  it  well  with  my  child  ?'  and  soft  as  Heavenly  num 
bers,  sweet  as  the  music  of  an  angel's  lyre,  HE  will  answer,  l  It 
is  well.1 


I  HAVE  remembered  this  sermon,  fondly  and  long.  The 
preacher  was  such  a  man  as  William  Wirt  once  described,  only 
he  was  not  blind.  He  was  tall,  and  of  goodly  presence,  with  a 
venerable  snowy  head,  and  an  eye  that  beamed  with  benignity 
and  good  will  to  men.  Upon  returning  home,  with  my  heart  full 
of  the  discourse  I  had  heard,  I  wrote  thus : 


OLLAPODIANA.  129 

THE    EARLY    DEAD. 

'  WHY  mourn  for  the  Young  ?  Better  that  the  light  cloud  should  fade  a/ay  in  the 
morning's  breath,  than  travel  through  the  weary  day.  to  gather  in  darkness,  and  end 
in  storm.'  /  BULWER. 

IF  it  be  sad  to  mark  the  bow'd  with  age 
Sink  in  the  halls  of  the  remorseless  tomb/ 

Closing  the  changes  of  life's  pilgrimage  ' /• 
In  the  still  darkness  of  its  moulderins^gloom  ; 

Oh  !  what  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart  is  flung, 

When  peals  the  requiem  of  the  loved  and  young ! 

They  to  whose  bosoms,  like  the  dawn  of  spring 

To  the  unfolding  bud  and  seeded  rose, 
Comes  the  pure  freshness  ag^  can  never  bring, 

And  fills  the  spirit  with  d  rich  repose, 
How  shall  we  lay  them  in  their  final  rest ; 
How  pile  the  clods  upon  their  wasting  breast  ? 

Life  openeth  brightly  to  their  ardent  gaze  ; 

A  glorious  pomp  sits  on  the  gorgeous  sky  ; 
O'er  the  broad  world  Hope's  smile  incessant  plays, 

And  scenes  of  beauty  win  the  enchanted  eye ; 
How  sad  to  break  the  vision,  and  to  fold 
Each  lifeless  form  in  earth's  embracing  mould  ! 

Yet  this  is  Life  !     To  mark  from  day  to  day, 
Youth,  in  the  freshness  of  its  morning  prime, 

Pass,  like  the  anthem  of  a  breeze  away  ; 

Sinking  in  waves  of  Death,  ere  chilled  by  Time .' 

Ere  yet  dark  years  on  the  warm  cheek  had  shed 

Autumnal  mildew  o'er  its  rose-like  red ! 

And  yet  what  mourner,  though  the  pensive  eye 

Be  dimly-thoughtful  in  its  burning  tears, 
But  should  with  rapture  gaze  upon  the  sky, 

Through  whose  far  depths  the  spirit's  wing  careers  ? 
There  gleams  eternal  o'er  their  ways  are  flung, 
Who  fade  from  earth  while  yet  their  years  are  young  ! 


CHILDREN  are  queer  subjects  to  write  about.  I  know  several 
little  friends  of  mine,  that  I  can  never  believe  will  be  grown  up 
wrinkled  men  and  women.  Will  that  Jittle  beauty  become  an 
old  woman  ?  I  '11  not  believe  it.  Will  that  boy,  now  shootino* 
his  marble,  or  drawing  his  sled  in  winter,  will  he  become  a 
portly-looking  man,  with  a  stern  temper,  a  fat  abdomen,  and  a 
big  bunch  of  watch-keys  hanging  just  beneath  his  waistcoat? 
Will  he  wear  spectacles,  and  a  cane  ?  It  seems  impossible,  but 
it  must  be.  There  must  be  an  end  to  every  thing  j  to  youth,  to 
its  tastes,  and  its  associations. 

9 


130  OLLAPODIANA. 

READER,  I  do  not  wish  to  twaddle  ;  but  there  can  be  no  harm; 
in  announcing  to  you,  that  in  my  meridian  the  *  spring  time  of 
the  yeai  is  coming.'  There  is  a  soft,  bland  influence  in  the  air, 
which  comes  over  the  spirit  like  the  rush  of  an  angel's  wing,  fill 
ing  it  with  fresh  and  happy  thoughts.  1  can  see  the  trees  from 
my  window,  bursting  into  verdure  ;  and  the  thousand  voices  of 
the  city  seem  sweeter  to  my  ear.  We  have  had  a  stormy  winter 
and  a  long  ;  and  \hose  were  horri'd  North-easters  that  blew  along 
the  Atlantic  coast,  \\hat  time,  vexed  with  our  Yankee  euroclydon, 
(and  we  occasionally  get  up  a  passing  good  one,)  *  the  sea 
wrought  and  was  tempestuous.'  But  now,  the  winter  is  over  and 
gone ;  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth ;  the  time  of  the  singing 
of  the  birds  is  come ;  and  t\^  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the 
lan(l :  not  the  '  torkle  upon  yager's  tree,'  of  which  I  made  a 
late  quotation  from  a  bard  of  Pennsylvania  ;  but  those  which 
William  and  coo,  with  their  beautiful  necks,  on  the  house-tops. 
(I  hate  the  word  bill,  for  many  reasons.)  The  chimney-sweep 
stays  longer  in  the  quiet  sunshine  on  his  brick  tower ;  the  spirit 
of  spring  is  in  his  brush,  and  his  song  is  louder.  Commend  me 
to  Spring.  It  is  the  gem  of  the  seasons,  beyond  dispute. 

TALKING  of  disputes,  sends  into  my  mind  the  thought  of  a 
good-hearted  acquaintance,  who  really  thinks  that  he  is  immense 
in  controversy.  He  will  overcome  you  with  words,  and  though 
they  have  but  little  argument  in  them,  yet  I  have  never  known  a 
person  to  commence  a  colloquy  with  him  who  was  not  *  worsted.' 
He  will  go  from  Dan  until  thou  come  to  Beersheba,  just  to  com 
pass  a  hard  word,  which  he  lugs  in  as  a  puzzler.  If  his  oppo 
nent  tells  him  he  does  not  know  what  he  means  by  such  words,  he 
will  come  down  upon  him  with  the  sweeping  conclusion  that  such 
ignorance  is  a  proof  that  he  is  not  a  fit  antagonist.  Lately,  he 
was  riding  in  the  stage  with  a  motley  collection  of  passengers,  in 
the  interior  of  a  neighboring  state.  By  degrees  the  party  became 
chatty,  and  our  friend  was  not  backward  in  the  lingual  exercise. 
The  conversation  turned  upon  the  merits  of  Christianity  and  un 
belief.  There  were  one  or  two  infidels  in  the  vehicle,  who  took 
up  the  cudgels  for  their  siple,  with  more  zeal  than  truth  or  discre 
tion.  They  began  to  circumvent  our  traveller,  when  he  stopped 
them  short  by  saying  :  *  Gentlemen,  it  is  no  manner  of  use  for 
you  to  attempt  an  argument  with  me.  I  have  out-talked  many 
of  your  way  of  thinking  ;  and  I  may  say,  that  I  never  met  with 
one  yet,  who  was  not  glad  enough,  before  I  had  done  with  him, 
to  get  off  by  crying  copwm  /'  He  thought  this  the  choice  Italian 
for  peccavi.  It  is  needless  to  say,  that  after  this,  by  common 


OLLAPODIANA.  131 

concession,  '  he  had  the  floor.'  But  ble&s  me  !  reader,  now  I 
think  of  it,  it  is  time  that  there  should  te  an  end  to  the  present 
number  of  the  lucubrations  of  your  honest  friend,  OLLAPOD. 


THIRTEEN. 

July,  1836. 

MOST  people  travel  a  leede  every  Summer  through  these  Uni 
ted  States,  in  sundry  portions  and  quarters  thereof;  and  yet  how 
very  few  of  those  who  go  down  upcfh  the  sea  in  ships,  or  along 
the  rail-road  or  the  canal,  seeing  the  sublimities  and  oddities  of 
existence,  make  any  record  of  them  ?  ^  Therefore,  gentle  reader, 
do  I  propose  to  enlighten  thee,  not  with  sketches  of  travel,  but 
wirfi  beneficial  hints,  whereby  thy  omnipresent  whereabout,  as 
ihou  journey est,  may  be  regaled. 

WE  are  passing  up  the  Hudson.  The  low  clouds  from  a  hun 
dred  steam-boats  are  staining  the  sky  in  the  direction  of  New 
York,  which  has  long  since  faded  in  the  distance.  The  peri 
patetic  colored  man,  who  summons  oblivious  passengers  to  'the 
capting's  orifice,'  to  disburse  the  swindle  for  their  transit,  has  not 
yet  gone  his  rounds  :  there  is  only  the  low  gurgle  of  the  waves 
ploughed  aside  by  the  bow  of  the  steam-boat ;  the  half-awakened 
company  are  promenading  the  deck,  and  the  poetically-disposed 
are  looking  at  the  Palisades,  whose  dark  shoulders  rise  on  the 
west  bank  of  the  river,  as  if  those  barriers  could  never  be  re 
moved,  even  by  the  voice  of  the  archangel,  and  the  final  trump. 

BY-THE-WAY,  speaking  of  the  last  trumpet,  makes  me  remem 
ber  the  reply  of  a  veteran  old  charcoal  man,  of  Philadelphia, 
well  known  to  the  citizens  thereof  for  the  sonorousness  of  his  tin 
horn,  and  the  excellence  of  his  commodity.  Honest  JIMMY 
CHARCOAL  ! — he  is  removed  from  among  the  quick,  and  num 
bered  with  those  who  have  jumped  from  the  shoal  of  time  into 
kingdom  come.  He  was  a  cheerful,  good-hearted  citizen ;  and 
though  he  certainly  did  not  move  in  the  first  circles,  yet  he  spread 
light  and  heat  wherever  he  went — not  by  his  person,  however; 
for  if  ever  there  was  a  man  who  looked  like  a  plenipotentiary 
fresh  from  the  court  of  Tophet,  Jimmy  was  that  individual. 
Well,  as  I  have  said,  he  had  a  most  vociferous  horn,  and  unre 
mitting  were  the  blasts  which  he  protruded  through  the  same  upon 


132  OLLAPODIANA. 

the  general  ear.  At  last,  some  evil-disposed  citizens,  having  no 
taste  for  music,  went  to  his  honor  the  Mayor,  and  lodged  griev 
ous  complaints  against  the  distinguished  hornist,  (I  use  a  musical 
term,)  setting  forth  that  he  disturbed  the  public  bosom  with  his 
soul-stirring  instrument.  After  such  an  accusation,  he  was 
brought  before  the  great  municipal  functionary,  and  received  a 
stern  and  awful  reprimand.  Jimmy  stood  the  rebuke  as  if  Satan 
had  not  only  allowed  him  his  own  color,  but  also  his  courage. 
His  reply  was  cogent  and  conclusive  :  « Look  here,  your  honor/ 
said  he,  '  I  ha'nt  no  disposition,  by  no  means,  to  complain  of 
them  'ere  people  as  has  complained  of  me.  Folks  in  my  line  can 
bear  upwards  of  considerable  in  the  way  of  epithets,  without 
changing  color,  or  gettin'  mad.  But  I  do  s^y,  that  I  axes  them  as 
charges  me  with  making  too  much  noise  in  the  world,  why  they 
have  got  up  such  an  antipathy  ag'in'  my  horn!  And  I  should 
like  to  know,  if  my  little  tin  affair  troubles  them  so  now>  how 
they  will  feel  when  they  come  to  hear  the  big  trumpet,  that  is  to  be 
New  at  the  day  of  judgment ;  calling  them,  just  as  likely  as  not, 
to  a  coal-hole  a  mighty  sight  blacker  than  the  one  I  come  from  ?' 
The  Mayor  was  non-plussed  ;  and  the  coal  man  went  twang* 
ing  on  his  ways.  The  officer  could  no  more  stand  his  logic  than 
his  opponent  could  his  horn. 

BUT  I  digress.  Let  us  get  back  to  the  Hudson.  Stop,  ye 
who  travel,  one  day  at  West  Point.  That  Cozzens  gives  noble 
dinners ;  his  wines  are  superb  ;  and  the  man  who  likes  not  crea 
ture  comforts,  is  a  bad  member  of  society.  Go  thou  likewise  to 
the  Cattskill  Mountain  House,  whence  you  shall  look  down  be 
neath  the  clouds  on  smiling  counties,  and  towns  and  cities,  spread 
forth  as  on  a  map,  at  your  feet.  ;  There,'  said  Natty  Bumpo, 
'  you  can  see  —  creation  !  The  Hudson  like  a  ribbon  ;  the  boats 
and  sails  on  its  blue  and  gleaming  breast  not  much  larger  than 
buoys  and  handkerchiefs.  Oh,  'tis  a  noble  scene  !  —  and  when 
the  plains  beneath  are  sweltering  in  the  fervors  of  Summer  ;  when 
the  snake  creeps  forth  on  the  rock  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  cattle 
in  a  thousand  meadows  consort  together  under  the  trees,  to 
breathe  the  air  that  gathers  from  the  sleepy  landscape  into  their 
branches  ;  then,  at  the  Mountain  House,  't  is  calm  and  cool . 
I  say,  reader,  be  sure  to  go  there  ;  and  if  it  is  somewhat  too  cold 
in  June,  it  must  be  nice  in  July  and  August. 

MAGNIFICENT  are  the  Cattskills,  as  seen  from  the  Hudson. 
How  their  4  broad  highland  regions'  swell  and  roll  in  sublime  and 
solemn  undulations  against  the  sky !  How  profuse  the  gushes 


OLLAPODIANA.  133 

of  glorious  sunlight  that  chase  each  other  along  those  lordly 
ridges  !  As  the  boat  glides  along,  these  peaks  are  sometimes  hid 
from  view ;  but  like  great  men  amid  the  strifes  of  parties,  or  the 
changes  of  time,  they  must  almost  continually  impress  us  with 
their  presence,  and  stand  like  distant  guardians  of  one  of  the 
finest  rivers  in  the  world,  observable,  for  countless  inland  leagues, 
overlooking  streams,  villages,  and  the  grander  Hudson,  for  hun 
dreds  of  miles. 

ALBANY  is  a  capital  city.  If  you  are  a  quiet  person,  enam 
ored  of  ease  and  comfort,  go  to  Cruttenden's,  mine  host  of  the 
Eagle.  Most  delicious  is  his  coffee  ;  neatest  of  the  neat  are  his 
rooms  ;  his  bread  is  like  snow  ;  his  viands  done  to  a  T ;  and 
there  is  nothing  equal  to  his  own  personal  courtesies.  Pleasant 
things  drop  continually  from  his  lips,  and  your  ear  may  drink 
wisdom  and  wit  from  them,  '  as  the  honey-bee  drinks  from  the 
rose.'  He  is  the  best  possible  sign  of  the  excellence  of  his  own 
fare.  His  cheeks  are  full  and  healthy,  and  though  his  nose  is 
not  bedecked  with  those  sumptuous  red  carbuncles  which  are 
usually  supposed  the  insignia  of  a  true  Boniface,  yet  his  figure  is 
portly  and  commanding,  and  '  his  belly  is  as  a  round  goblet, 
which  wanteth  not  liquor,'  as  the  wise  man  observes  in  his  Can 
ticles.  

LET  me  not  be  an  out-and-outer,  as  touching  Albany,  I  would 
that  my  praise  should  be  properly  modified.  The  lower,  or  busi 
ness  parts  of  the  city,  except  in  the  region  round  about  the  Eagle, 
are  not  particularly  attractive  ;  but  in  the  upper  quarters,  near  the 
Capitol  Square,  and  along  State-street,  few  towns  in  our  country 
*  can  with  it  compare.'  I  know  of  no  place  to  which,  in  some 
respects,  could  be  better  applied  the  lines  of  Byron : 

*  FOR  whoso  entereth  within  this  town, 
That  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  e'e.' 

But  ascend  you  to  the  dome  of  the  City  Hall,  in  Capital  Square, 
and  look  forth  upon  the  scene  !  It  is  beautiful ;  that's  the  word. 
Look  at  the  landscape  to  the  North,  heaved  up  in  the  glory  and 
grandeur  of  Summer  against  the  sapphire  walls  of  Heaven ;  va 
ried  with  meadows  and  harvest-fields,  and  rural  mansions  ;  ob 
serve  Troy,  with  its  Mount  Ida,  and  the  affluent  valley  of  the 
Hudson ;  likewise  the  distant  Cattskills ;  also  the  city  beneath, 
with  those  numerous  *  white  swellings,'  or  domes,  of  the  steeple 
genus,  which  have  broken  out  ambitiously  all  over  the  town  j 


134  OLLAPODIANA. 

look  at  these,  and  at  the  whole  sweep  of  Capitol  Square,  and  you 
shall  meet  with  great  rejoicing  of  eye.  But  beware  of  a  person 
whom  you  may  observe  in  the  streets,  perambulating  about  with 
a  basket  on  his  arm,  vending  the  sweet-flag  root,  and  barks  of 
prickly-ash  and  slippery-elm.  The  latter,  especially,  should  you 
partake  of  it,  will  cause  you  to  remain  a  day  beyond  your  time. 
Wonderfully  slippery  is  that  article,  indeed  ;  and  you  would 
think,  to  hear  its  owner  talk,  *  in  the  way  of  trade,'  that  his 
tongue  was  made  of  the  same  material. 

THE  route  to  Schenectady  is  dullish  ;  but  I  advise  the  reader, 
if  that  personage  be  a  male,  to  take  the  outside  of  the  car,  (by 
courtesy  from  the  powers  that  be,)  and  survey  the  country  round. 
He  will  see  the  eternal  Cattskills  bounding  the  horizon  for  near 
two-thirds  of  the  way ;  rising  like  pyramids,  blue  and  lofty  into 
Heaven : 

*  Where  clouds  like  earthly  barriers  stand 
Or  bulwarks  of  some  viewless  land.' 

I  am  discoursing  now  to  the  traveller  on  the  Niagara  route, 
and  therefore  I  would  fling  in  a  word  or  two  of  advice  to  him. 
When  thou  comest  to  Schenectaday,  thou  wilt  be  grievously 
athirst,  if  the  weather  be  warm  ;  but  I  beseech  thee,  buy  no  soda 
water  in  Old  Esopus.  One  '  lean  apothecary'  who  dwelleth 
hereabout,  has  an  apology  for  the  article;  but  drink  it  not!  It 
is  indescribable ;  tastes  like  bad  champagne,  vinegar,  and  brim 
stone.  A  tumbler  full  of  the  Dead  Sea  would  taste  sweeter. 
Neither  be  thou  tempted  by  the  boys  who  vend  nuts  and  ap 
ples  by  the  packet  boat  landing.  Dishonest,  and  peddling 
urchins  —  their  commodities  are  awful! 


THE  contrast  between  the  spacious  cabins  of  the  Hudson 
steamers,  and  the  low  narrow  boats  on  the  canal,  even  those  of 
the  better  sort,  is  unhappily  too  striking.  When  you  enter  the 
latter,  resign  yourself  to  fate.  You  will  find  captains  or  superin 
tendents,  who  verily  believe  that  there  are  no  other  places  on 
earth  but  Schenectady  and  Utica,  and  that  the  rest  of  creation  is 
of  small  account.  They  are  stupendous  persons,  on  a  small 
scale.  The  idea  of  having  some  fifty  or  sixty  individuals,  by 
compulsion,  in  their  power  every  day,  gives  them  a  sense  of  their 
own  importance,  which  nothing  can  annul ;  and  the  air  of  gran 
deur  with  which  they  help  you  to  a  half-boiled  potato,  or  a 
stinted  radish,  would  befit  princes.  But  do  not  offend  them. 
On  the  contrary,  cause  them  to  believe  that  you  suppose  them 
incomparable ;  their  fare  rich  beyond  description  ;  their  charges 


OLLAPODIANA.  135 

no  swindle ;  and  that  you  have  no  exalted  opinion  of  the  new 
rail-road  to  be  open  in  August,  and  destined  to  carry  passengers 
three  times  quicker,  and  you  will  get  the  best  they  have ;  they 
receiving,  at  the  same  time,  a  draft  on  your  eternal  gratitude.  I 
do  not  wish  to  flatter  these  varlets ;  but  I  do  say,  that  their  bills 
ought  to  be  made  payable  in  slow  notes ;  namely,  paper,  payable, 
the  first  instalment  when  the  debtor  dies,  and  the  last  half  when 
he  rises. 

It  is  rumored  that  important  improvements  are  in  contempla 
tion  by  these  great  men ;  among  others,  a  novel  mode  of  making 
the  public  mouth  salutary,  '  from  North  to  South.'  This  was 
suggested  by  the  following  circumstance.  A  captain  was  helping 
himself  to  the  tooth-brush  of  a  respectable  passenger,  who  said 
to  him :  c  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  with  my  brush  and  pow 
der  ?'  '  Why,'  said  the  captain,  '  I  am  using  it  because  I  thought 
it  belonged  to  the  boat,  and  had  been  furnished  by  the  company, 
for  the  use  of  the  passengers  /' 

WHEN  you  come  to  Utica,  do  not  be  in  haste  to  depart.  You 
may  kill  twenty-four  divisions  of  the  common  enemy  ;  nay,  forty- 
eight,  very  agreeably  there.  Trenton  Falls  are  not  far  off; 
though  it  matters  little  whether  you  see  them  before  you  go  to 
Niagara,  or  on  your  return. 

But  soft ;  *  a  word  or  two  before  you  go.'  There  is  a  drug- 
shop,  kept  by  an  Italian,  near  the  canal,  on  the  right  of  Genesee 
street,  as  you  proceed  to  the  West,  where  yojj  can  obtain  soda 
powders,  and  eke  Seidlitz,  of  unimpeachable  excellence.  Buy 
several  boxes.  They  will  serve  you  well  on  the  road  to  the 
Great  Falls  ;  where,  dear  reader,  you  shall  meet  me  anon. 


NUMBER   FOURTEEN. 

September,  1830. 

OH  thou  who  lookest  over  this  page  of  mine,  who  participatest 
in  the  'portance  of  the  travels'  history  of  OLLAPOD,  listen  to  me. 
Wouldst  thou  journey  with  comfort  through  the  west  of  New 
York,  avoid  the  canal-boats.  At  first,  when  you  embark,  all 
seems  fair;  the  eleemosynary  negro,  who  vexes  his  clarionet,  and 
governs  its  tuneful  ventiges,  to  pay  for  his  passage,  seems  a  very- 
Apollo  to  your  ear ;  the  appointments  of  the  boat  appear  ample  ; 
a  populous  town  slowly  glides  from  your  view,  and  you  feel  quita 
comfortable  and  contented.  As  yet,  you  have  not  gone  below. 


136         ,  OLLAPODIANA. 

*  Things  above'  attract  your  attention — some  pretty  point  of 
landscape,  or  distant  steeple,  shining  among  the  summer  trees. 
Anon,  the  scenery  becomes  tame,  and  you  descend.  A  feeling 
comes  over  you  as  you  draw  your  first  breath  in  the  cabin,  which 
impels  to  the  holding  of  your  nose.  The  cabin  is  full ;  you  have 
hit  your  head  twice  against  the  ceiling  thereof,  and  stumbled 
sundry  times  against  the  seats  at  the  side.  Babies,  vociferous 
babies,  are  playing  with  their  mothers'  noses,  or  squalling  in 
appalling  concert.  If  you  stir,  your  foot  treads  heavily  upon  the 
bulbous  toes  of  some  recumbent  passenger  ;  if  you  essay  to  sleep, 
the  gabble  of  those  around  you,  or  the  noisy  gurgle  of  a  lock, 
arouses  you  to  consciousness ;  and  then,  if  you  are  of  that  large 
class  of  persons  in  whom  the  old  Adam  is  not  entirely  crucified, 
then  you  swear.  Have  you  any  desire  for  literary  entertain 
ment?  Approach  the  table.  There  shall  you  find  sundry  tracts  ; 
a  copy  of  the  Temperance  recorder ;  Goldsmith's  Animated  Na 
ture,  and  Plutarch's  Lives.  By  and  by  dinner  approaches :  and 
oh !  how  awful  the  suspense  between  the  hours  of  preparation 
and  realization !  Slowly,  and  one  by  one,  the  dishes  appear. 
At  long  intervals,  or  spaces  of  separation  from  each  other — say 
five  for  the  whole  length  of  the  boat  —  you  behold  tumblers  ar 
ranged,  with  two  forlorn  radishes  in  each.  The  butter  lies  like 
gravy  in  the  plate ;  the  malodorous  passengers  of  the  masculine 
gender  draw  nigh  to  the  scanty  board ;  the  captain  comes  near, 
to  act  his  oft-repeated  part,  as  President  of  the  day.  Oh, 
gracious  !  'tis  a  scene  of  enormous  cry  and  scanty  wool.  It 
mendicants  description. 

I  WAS  walking  on  the  deck  after  dinner  ducking  my  head 
every  moment  at  the  cry  of  '  Bridge  /'  when  the  captain  joined 
me,  and  began  to  relate  the  perils  that  he  had  encountered,  during 
his  experience  on  the  *  deep  waters'  over  which  we  were  gliding. 
'  It  is  not  for  every  one,'  said  he,  *  to  appreciate  the  perils  of  an 
official  station  like  mine.  That  little  lad  who  stands  beside  you, 
and  who,  though  a  stranger  to  you,  seems  to  have  a  desire  for 
your  company,  that  urchin,  could  he  stay  with  me  ten  years, 
would  be  a  sailor  like  me,  and  could  relate  like  me  his  hardships. 
Every  year  is  fruitful  of  incident.  Last  year — it  was  in  the 
fall  —  this  canawl  was  visited  with  a  gale  —  and  such  a  gale  !  Do 
not  discredit  me,  when  I  say,  that,  owing  to  the  violence  of  it, 
nearly  a  dozen  boats  were  compelled  to  hug  the  shore  ;  and  be 
lieve  me,  too,  when  I  tell  you,  that  for  twenty-five  minutes  this 
very  boat  rested  upon  a  sand  bank,  caused  by  the  entrance  of  a 
creek.  Judge  of  my  feelings  at  that  awful  moment !  I  ordered 


OLLAPODIANA.  137 

on  deck  the  cook,  the  steward,  and  the  rest  of  the  crew,  together 
with  such  passengers  as  were  not  sound  asleep,  irfeensible  of 
their  danger,  and  with  as  much  coolness  as  I  could  command, 
under  the  circumstances,  I  bade  them  prepare  for  the  worst. 
Two  venerable  persons  of  the  female  sex  —  old  women,  as  one 
wild  young  man,  whom  no  danger  could  appal,  denominated 
them — escaped  safe  to  land.  Dire  terror  ruled  the  hour.  The 
winds  blew ;  the  awful  ripples  dashed  against  the  prow,  as  if  they; 
were  mad ;  and  one  distracted  lady  rushed  about  the  deck,  in 
quiring  if  I  had  seen  her  husband,  Mr.  Smilax  Waterhouse. 
Answering  her  in  the  negative,  I  bent  my  way  to  what  is  vulgarly 
called  the  tail  end  of  the  boat.  What  a  sight  here  met  my  eye ! 
The  two  ladies,  it  is  true,  had  escaped  safe  to  land,  but  they 
were  in  a  woful  plight — one  of  them  having  lost  her  shoe  in  the 
water,  and  the  other  her  night-cap.  On  horrors'  head  horrors 
accumulated ;  and  I  was  on  the  eve  of  sinking  in  despair,  with 
no  hopes  of  ever  getting  off  the  sand-bar,  when  deliverance  came  ! 
A  swell  from  the  lock,  a  few  rods  above,  lifted  us  from  our  fear 
ful  situation,  and  restored  us  to  safety  and  comfort. 

BUT  the  grand  charm  and  scene  of  a  canal  packet  is  in  the 
evening.  If  on  your  way  from  Schenectady  to  Utica,  the  sun 
goes  down  into  the  rosy  west,  just  after  you  leave  that  beautiful 
gorge  in  the  Mohawk  mountains,  where  you  see  the  towering 
pines  on  one  side,  rising  precipitously  near  three  hundred  feet 
above  you,  and  on  the  other,  the  gentle  river,  calmly  gliding 
through  the  vale  below — forming  the  only  tolerable  scene  on  the 
route.  Well,  you  go  below,  and  there  you  behold  a  hot  and 
motley  assemblage.  A  kind  of  stillness  begins  to  reign  around. 
It  seems  as  if  a  protracted  meeting  were  about  to  commence. 
Clergymen,  capitalists,  long-sided  merchants,  who  have  come 
from  far,  green-horns,  taking  their  first  experience  of  the  wonders 
of  the  deep  on  the  canawl,  all  these  are  huddled  together  in  wild 
and  inexplicable  confusion.  By  and  by  the  captain  takes  his  seat, 
and  the  roll  of  berths  is  called.  Then,  what  confusion !  Layer 
upon  layer  of  humanity  is  suddenly  shelved  for  the  night ;  and 
in  the  preparation,  what  a  world  of  bustle  is  required !  Boots 
are  released  from  a  hundred  feet,  and  their  owners  deposit  them 
wherever  they  can.  There  was  one  man,  OLLAPOD  beheld  him, 
who  pulled  off  the  boots  of  another  person,  thinking  the  while 
—  mistaken  individual !  — that  he  was  disrobing  his  own  shrunken 
legs  of  their  leathern  integuments,  so  thick  were  the  limbs  and 
feet  that  steamed  and  moved  round  about.  Another  tourist — 
fat,  oily,  and  round — who  had  bribed  the  steward  for  two  chairs 


138  OLLAPODIANA. 

placed  by  the  side  of  his  berth,  whereon  to  rest  his  abdomen, 
amused  tHe  assembly  by  calling  out ;  '  Here,  waiter !  bring  me 
another  pillow !  I  have  got  the  ear-ache,  and  have  put  the  first 
one  into  my  auricular  organ !'  Thus  wore  the  hours  away. 
Sleep,  you  can  not.  Feeble  moschetoes,  residents  in  the  boat, 
whose  health  suffers  from  the  noisome  airs  they  are  nightly  com 
pelled  to  breathe,  do  their  worst  to  annoy  you  ;  and  then,  Phoebus 
Apollo !  how  the  sleepers  snore  !  There  is  every  variety  of  this 
music,  from  the  low  wheeze  of  the  asthmatic,  to  the  stentorian 
grunt  of  the  corpulent  and  profound.  Nose  after  nose  lifts  up  its 
^tuneful  oratory,  until  the  place  is  vocal.  Some  communicative 
free-thinkers  talk  in  their  sleep,  and  altogether,  they  make  a  con 
certo  and  a  diapason  equal  to  that  which  Milton  speaks  of,  when 
through  the  sonorous  organ  'from  many  a  row  of  pipes,  the 
sound-boafd  breathes.'  At  last,  morning  dawns  ;  you  ascend 
into  pure  air,  with  hair  unkempt,  body  and  spirit  unrefreshed, 
and  show  yourself  to  the  people  of  some  populous  town  into 
which  you  are  entering,  as  you  wash  your  face  in  canal  water  on 
deck,  from  a  hand  basin  !  It  is  a  scene,  I  say  again,  take  it  for 
all  in  all,  that  throws  description  upon  the  parish,  and  makes  you 
a  pauper  in  words.  '  Ohejam  satis? 

You  may  meet  with  much  edification  on  board  one  of  these 
craft,  in  observing  the  working  of  what  is  called  human  nature. 
At  dinner,  a  sour  old  bachelor,  who  had  been  once  a  supercargo 
to  Smyrna,  and  then  a  merchant  in  a  small  way  —  one  who  had 
all  the  stiff  formality  of  a  half-cut  gentleman,  without  the  educa- 
cation  or  tact  necessary  for  the  composition  of  even  such  a 
personage  —  procured  from  a  basket,  which  he  was  taking  with 
him  on  his  journey,  a  bottle  of  warm  champaigne.  A  country 
friend,  with  whom  he  was  accidentally  travelling,  was  solicited  to 
imbibe  the  vinous  beverage  with  him.  This  friend  was  one  of 
those  malapropos  characters,  who,  with  the  best  intentions,  are 
always  saying  something  wrong.  On  renewing  his  glass,  he 
said :  '  Well  now,  this  'ere  tastes  like  something — this  arn't  like 
the  sour  cider  we  get  in  the  country,  is  it,  any  how  ?' 

'  I  hope  you  doa't  mean,'  said  the  fidgetty  host,  '  that  there  is 
anything  wrong  about  it  ?' 

'  Oh,  not  by  no  means  whatsomever.  I  reckon  that  it  is  good. 
Let  me  give  you  a  toast.  Success  to  American  Manufactures  /' 

*  Sir,'   respondent  the   ci-devant  supercargo,   *  what    do  you 
mean  ?     Why  do  you  give  that  toast,  of  all  others  ?     I  ask  you 
candidly,  is  this  wine  like  American  manufacture  ?' 

*  God  bless  you,  neighbor,  I  didn't  mean  nothing  of  that  kind ; 


OLLAPODIANA.  139 

and  I  say,  let's  drop  the  subject.    Were  you  ever  in  NewarJcT 

The  face  of  the  old  fellow  assumed  the  hue  of  scarlet.  Fire 
stood  in  his  eye.  He  sat  down  his  glass,  and  looking  daggers  at 
his  friend,  observed : 

'  I  don't  know  what  your  object  is — but  you  are  evidently  try 
ing  to  insult  me.  What  has  Newark  to  do  with  this  champaigne  ? 
Do  you  suppose  it  is  made  there  ?  Sir,  your  conduct  is  out 
rageous.' 

The  countryman  sank  back  against  the  boat-side,  observing 
that  he  *  wouldn't  never  attempt  to  get  up  a  variety  in  his  con 
versation  again.'  

THIS  reminds  me  of  a  scene  told  of  Lockport.  A  clown 
there  walked  up  leisurely  to  the  stall  of  one  of  those  small 
traders  who  furnish  canal-tourists  of  limited  means  with  '  wittles 
and  drink,'  and  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  vending  a  large 
lot  of  sausages  to  a  hungry-looking  traveller,  which  were  to  last 
him  until  his  arrival  at  Buffalo,  the  vagabond,  looking  suspi 
ciously  at  the  article,  and  addressing  the  seller,  said : 

'  Is  them  good  sassenges  ?' 

*  Yes,  they  are  good  sausages,  you  ignorant  ramus.  You 
would  like  to  keep  me  from  selling  'em,  if  you  could  fix  it  that 
way,  I  don't  doubt.' 

'  No  I  wouldn't,'  responded  the  loafer ;  '  I  don't  know  nothing 
'special  about  them  sassenges ;  they  may  be  good  sassenges ;  I 
don't  say  they  ant  good  sassenges ;  all  I  do  say  is,  that  where- 
somever  you  see  them  kind«o'  sassenges,  you  don't  see  no  dogs  /* 

1 1  guess,  on  reflection,'  said  the  traveller,  *  that  I  won't  nego 
tiate  for  them  articles.  That  man's  last  remark  has  gi'n  me  a 
dislike  to  'em.' 

• 

Is  it  not  pleasant  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  one's  early  days  ? 
So  silently  questioned  OLLA* OD  himself,  as  he  journeyed  toward 
the  West,  what  time  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  Occident,  leaving 
his  last  rays  on  those  dark  forests*of  pines  and  cedars  which  be 
gird  the  lake  of  Oneida,  in  ftie  OnondagH  country.  The  *  ex 
clusive  extra'  performed  its  locomotive  office  with  wonderful 
rapidity  and  effect ;  the  cattle  attached  thereunto  having  only  the 
labor  of  drawing  *  wife,  self,  and  servant.' 

Pleasant  was  it  to  rise  at  S ,  in  the  morning,  and  walk 

about,  gazing  at  familiar  scenes,  unvisited  for  years.  Nature, 
sweet  nature  !  was  still  the  same  ;  and  as  I  journeyed  hurriedly 
round  and  round,  looking  upon  the  pigmy  doings  of  man,  com 
pared  with  the  scenery  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  GOD,  the  Spirit 


140  OLLAPODIANA. 

of  the  past  came  by,  and  fanned  me  with  her  fairy  wings.  A 
thousand  recollections  filled  my  mind  as  I  perambulated,  until  I 
chanted,  in  my  trance  of  memory,  a  part  of  a  beautiful  poem  by 
a  native  bard  : 

'I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  southern  sky, 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 
Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie.' 

How  many  events  come  before  the  mind  like  the  shadow  of  a 
dream  !  Such  was  my  sojourn  in  *  the  place  where  I  was  born.' 
It  was  short  but  sweet.  I  found  my  heart  filled  with  teeming  re 
collections  ;  everything  was  new  to  my  eye,  but  I  felt  that  my 
bosom  was  unchanged.  I  have,  and  I  thank  my  GOD  for  the 
possession,  feelings  and  sensibilities,  untainted  and  unworn.  In 
my  spirit,  I  can  still  experience  that  newness  of  delight  which  is 
said  to  wear  off  easily  by  contact  with  the  world.  It  is  not  so 
with  me.  A  poem  or  a  scene  ;  the  lapse  of  a  beautiful  river,  or 
the  sheen  of  a  rich  woodland  or  field  ;  can  yield  for  my  mind  the 
same  fruitage  of  contentment  which  it  felt  and  relished  in  other 
days.  For  the  perpetual  presence  of  this  capacity,  I  am  deeply 
and  devoutly  thankful.  I  would  not  exchange  it  for  worlds. 

'  SWEET  AUBURN  !  loveliest  village  of!'  —  and  so  forth.  Every 
body  knows  the  quotation.  Charming  were  the  hours  we  passed 
therein,  with  beloved  friends.  If  I  ever  felt  a  political  predilec 
tion —  which  I  never  did  —  I  could  have  wished,  as  we  closed 

the   embowered  gate  of  our  hospitable   friend  S ,  and  his 

assiduous  household,  that  he  had  been  elected  Governor  of  the 
Empire  State.*  Auburn  was  lovely ;  but  saving  the  premises  of 
the  above-mentioned,  and  a  very  few  of  the  same  character,  it 
has  sadly  changed  from  « the  olden  time.'  I  say  sadly,  because 
I  deem  that  the  improvements  in  tenements  and  marts  of  stone, 
which  the  town  has  been  garnished  withal,  are  but  continuations, 
as  it  were,  of  the  State's  Prison.  However,  the  least  said  is  the 
soonest  mended.  The  effect,  to  the  traveller,  on  entering  the 
place,  is  certainly  pleasing,  and  indicative  of  great  improvement. 
A  superb  hotel  y'clept  the  AMERICAN — I  love  the  latter  word 
— is  there  ;  and  in  the  scenery  round  about,  there  is  much  to 
please,  and  much  to  see. 

READER,  have  you  ever  journeyed  in  the  Genesee  country  ? 

*TiME  and  large  majorities  confirmed  this  wish,  on  two  subsequent 
trials.  EDITOR. 


OLLAPODIANA.  141 

If  you  have  not,  how  much  have  you  lost !  I  speak  not  to  those 
who  pass  the  wonderful  works  of  GOD  with  unobservant  eyes, 
but  I  talk  to  those  who  find  sermons  and  good  in  every  thing. 
To  such,  I  would  say,  *  Surely  you  were  charmed  with  the 
Skaneatles,  and  the  region  round  about  Cayuga?'  There  the 
country  is  healthy  to  live  in,  and  lovely  to  see.  Passing  the  lake 
of  Cayuga,  you  can  not  well  omit  to  notice  the  peculiar  green 
ness  of  the  waters.  They  seem  to  the  eye  as  if  the  grassy  banks 
which  surround  them  had  been  melted,  and  transfused  into  liquid 
emerald.  If  you  should  ever  visit  Cayuga — I  speak  now  to  any 
one  who  has  neglected  the  western  tour  hitherto — you  will  per 
ceive  the  truth  of  this  present  writing. 

IT  is  wonderful  how  all  the  western  towns  flourish  which  pos 
sess  '  water  privileges.'  How  extraordinary,  for  example,  is  the 
growth  of  Seneca  Falls !  Not  long  ago,  it  was  a  mere  hamlet, 
beside  a  little  stream ;  now  it  is  almost  a  city  ;  while  its  whilome 
more  pompous  neighbor,  Waterloo,  seems  dwindling  to  decay, 
or  at  least  not  perfectly  kindled  with  that  fire  of  improvement 
which  generally  distinguishes  the  West. 

*  BEAUTIFUL  exceedingly'  is  the  terrestrial  vestibule  of  the 
Oenesee  !  As  we  journeyed  westward  from  the  blue  distances 
near  the  lake  of  Cayuga  toward  that  pleasant  region,  I  could  not 
but  seek  to  compare  in  my  imagination  the  country  we  were 
nearing,  to  the  country  we  had  left.  The  first  had  been  charm 
ing  to  our  eyes  —  could  the  remainder  exceed  it?  The  far-off 
uplands,  over  which  the  winds  from  the  south-west  went  freshened 
from  the  Cayuga ;  the  green  waters,  that  danced  and  eddied 
along  the  piers  of  the  bridge  ;  could  they  be  transcended  by  any 
thing  to  come  ?  In  that  predicament  of  the  fancy,  *  ignorance 
was  bliss.'  We  could  only  say  'Nous  verrons,'  and  watch  the 
flitting  landscapes,  or  the  plunge  of  the  wheels  of  the  {  extra,'  as 
they  sank,  with  a  heavy  gurgle,  in  the  rugged  road. 

CAPITAL,  and  most  delectable  to  see,  is  the  lake  of  Geneva, 
and  that  beautiful  gem  of  a  town  which  crowns  its  crystal  wave, 
above  a  strip  of  emerald  verdure,  and  gardens  flowering  in  the 
sun  of  June  !  '  How  sweet  the  day  beams  on  those  banks  re 
pose  !'  As  we  neared  them,  toward  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 
methought  I  was  like  the  pilgrim  of  Bunyan,  approaching  the 
glorious  regions  of  the  land  of  Bculah,  and  that  I  could  discern 
the  spirits  of  the  blessed  *  walking  in  white'  along  its  romantic 
terraces.  It  seemed  '  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart ;'  and  for  one 


142  OLLAPODIANA. 

short  but  delicious  moment,  I  felt  overcome  with  that  enthusiasm 
engendered  by  the  eye  within  the  mind,  and  deserving  that  strik 
ing  observation  of  Madame  de  Stael,  *  the  superfluity  of  the 
soul,'  thinking  the  while  of  PERCIVAL'S  noble  lines  to  the 
Seneca  waters  : 

*  ON  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 
,      The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 
And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale.' 

WHO  was  that  anonymous  herald  of  mine,  who  recorded  be 
neath  my  signature,  as  we  proceeded  toward  the  sunset,  at  every 
town  where  we  paused  to  give  breath  to  our  cattle,  the  name  of 
OLLAPOD,  with  many  compliments  in  the  Latin  tongue  ?  Who 
ever  he  was,  I  stretch  forth  to  him  the  hand  of  fancy.  Thou 
Grand  Inconnu !  touch  thy  dextral  digits  in  thought ;  consider 
thine  own  vehemently  squeezed ;  and  remain,  if  thou  wilt,  the 
kind  Unknown  ;  at  once  corporeal  and  yet  spiritual ;  a  creation 
insubstantial ;  an  entity,  yet  intangible  ;  '  umbra,  civis,  nihil  /' 

No  OFFENCE  to  the  turnpike  company  whose  duty  it  is  to 
superintend  the  roads  betwixt  Geneva  and  Canandaigua  ;  but 
candor  compels  me  to  say,  they  are  a  set  of  negligent  varlets, 
deserving  the  anathemas  of  '  all  who  travel  by  land  or  by  water,' 
especially  those  who  abandon  the  cheating  extras,  and  adopt  the 
Telegraph.  What  right  have  these  individuals  to  keep  the  holes 
in  the  turnpike  so  deep,  and  yet  so  treacherous  !  One  looks  out 
with  anxious  eye  to  see  what  is  '  going  to  come'  in  the  way  of 
thoroughfare,  and  lo  !  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view. 
The  gilded  pool  seems  dry  ;  the  deceitful  pudding  of  clay  has  a 
look  of  solidity;  but  anon  ! — spush  ! — down  drop  the  wheels 
in  front ;  creak  !  rings  the  tried  and  doubtful  axle  ;  '  He'ep'  ! 
d — nation  !'  saith  the  driver  ;  *  Oh  !'  says  the  timid  lady  within; 
'  Ha  !  ha  !  that  was  a  screamer  !'  ejaculates  the  western  specu 
lator,  filled  to  the  brim  with  animal  spirits  !  '  An  oncommon  deep 
'ole  !'  says  the  English  emigrant;  'I  thank  GOD  !  we  are  out!' 
says  the  politician  ;  '  Uh,  umph,  whe-e-ze  !'  ejaculates  the  dozing 
and  uncertain  passenger,  who  has  been  travelling  day  and  night 
for  a  week ;  and  thus  the  time  goes  on,  until  the  day  is  well-nigh 
spent,  and  you  see  the  farewell  light  of  day  playing  over  the  sweet 
waters  and  Elysian  bowers  of  Canandaigua. 

RICH  and  bountiful  Ontario! — called  by  politicians  the  'in 
fected  district,'  by  poets  the  garden  of  the  state — the  affluent 


OLLAPODIANA.  143 

parterre  of  every  thing  good  for  man,  or  nutritious  for  beast. 
The  sheen  of  thy  waters  is  yet  in  my  eye ;  the  breath  of  thy 
clover  fields  yet  regaleth  my  nostrils ;  I  seem,  (here  in  this 
crowded  home,  with  the  liveried  coaches  rattling  in  my  ear,  and 
the  city's  voice  booming  about  me,)  I  seem  to  be  stealing  flowers 
from  the  demesnes  of  some  unknown  Peri,  or  partaking  the  hos 
pitality  of  friends  and  brethren.  Beautiful  country  !— thou  art 
the  rus  in  urbe  of  my  thought !  In  thy  mansions  I  have  been 
seated,  with  all  those  culinary  appliances  and  varied  wines  which 
smack  of  the  city,  over  hearths  beneath  which  repose  the  bones 
of  unnumbered  Indians,  with  no  circumstance  to  tell  me  of  the 
country,  save  the  hallowed  stillness  ;  the  distant  wheat  fields 
waving  to  the  breeze  of  summer  ;  the  rural  spire  crowning  the 
distant  hill,  or  the  bleating  of  sheep,  huddling  together  from  the 
heat  of  the  day,  in  the  shade !  Precious  hours  !  They  throng 
back  upon  my  memory  with  influences  of  peace ;  with  the  hum 
of  bees,  the  voice  of  waving  branches,  the  tones  of  childhood, 
the  prattle  of  running  waters,  and  with  the  glow  of  the  lake, 
which  seemed  to  expand  as  the  twilight  drew  near, 

THAT,  smiling  from  the  sweet  south-west, 
The  sunbeams  might  rejoice  its  breast. 

*  *"*  * 

One  of  those  still  and  peaceful  lakes, 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky. 

He  vho,  having  seen  thee  once,  can  easily  forget  thee,  is  fit 
for  treasoft. 

To  THE  unobservant  eye,  doubtless  there  is  much  in  the 
Genesee  region  that  may  seem  dull  and  tame.  To  the  enthusi 
astic,  the  close-vieving,  or  the  romantic,  it  is  not  so.  The  vil 
lages  are  thriving  and  neat ;  the  country  rich  in  every  thing  ;  and 
'the  rising  generation,'  the  children,  are  lovely  specimens  of 
juvenile  humanity.  We  saw  them,  in  almost  every  meadow  we 
passed,  up  to  their  knees  in  strawberry-vines  and  clover,  gather 
ing  the  blossoms  of  the  one  and  the  fruits  of  the  other.  Pleasant 
beyond  description,  too,  are  the  white  dwellings  in  the  towns, 
embowered  in  the  honey-locust  tree,  or  lifting  their  pale  chim 
neys  behind  the  tall  and  melancholy  poplars  which  whisper 
around.  

A  LUDICROUS  incident  occurred  at  Batavia.  There  is  a  creek 
in  the  neighborhood,  which  makes  '  upward  of  considerable* 


144  OLLAPODIANA. 

noise,  after  night-fall.  The  English  passenger,  who  reached  the 
town  before  us,  by  leaving  the  stage  and  walking  on  foot,  ima 
gined  it  to  be  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  from  which  we  were  then 
between  fifty  and  sixty  miles.  He  went  out  and  listened.  *  My 
GOD  !'  said  he,  '  what  oncommon  roaring  falls  them  is  !  They 
must  e?/-ther  be  very  'igh,  or  else  the  winds  is  riz.'  The  mis 
take  was  not  corrected,  and  the  fellow  retired  to  rest,  with  his 
stupic  cranium  firmly  impressed  with  the  belief  that  his  long  ears 
had  caught  the  sound  of  the  Great  Cataract. 


TRAVELER  ! — as  thou  wendest  toward  the  West,  if  thou  art 
within  some  fifteen  miles  of  Batavia,  and  thinkest  of  pausing  for 
the  night,  rescind  the  mental  resolution,  and  post  on  to  that  town. 
There  shalt  thou  experience  a  good  bed,  and  delicious  rest,  with 
the  murmur  of  the  Tonnawanta  breathing  upon  the  night  air  thy 
quiet  lullaby.  Do  this  ;  to  the  end  that,  rising  in  the  morning, 
thou  go  to  Richville,  and  there  to  breakfast,  which  is  an  hospi 
table  town,  and  hath  an  hotel  whose  superior  is  not  to  be  found, 
whether  jhou  go  to  the  south-west  or  north-west,  or  indeed  to  any 
point  of  the  compass.  Comfortable  and  expeditious  BLODGET  ! 
The  voluminousness  of  thy  periphery  indicateth  the  epicure  ; 
upon  the  pullets  thou  sacrifices!,  are  the  pin-feathers  of  youth  ; 
thy  warm  cakes  are  done  deliciously  brown ;  thy  yellow  butter 
thy  irreproachable  eggs,  thy  unimpeachable  coffee  —  my  rr^e- 
monical  palate  remembers  them  all.  Murder  CreeJc,  too.  is  in 
thy  vicinity ;  and  as  it  goes  moaning  onward  under  tAe  rude 
bridge  that  spans  it,  the  reflection  of  bright  red  milk  upon  its 
shore,  as  they  give  back  the  sunbeam,  gives  its  murder's  proper 
hue  and  '  damned  spot.'  The  tradition  is,  that  a  poor  crazy  old 
man  was  killed  here  by  the  Indians,  many  years  ago,  in  the  early 
settlement  of  the  country  : 

*  MAY  be  be  true,  may  be  be  no  so  ; 
We  '11  grant  it  is,  and  let  it  go  so.' 

At  any  rate,  (BLODGET,  I  thank  thee  for  the  sentence,)  if  Rich 
ville  hath  the  memory  of  death,  it  hath  likewise,  and  in  full  pro 
fusion,  the  means  of  life.  

IT  is  anti- agreeable  to  post  over  a  road  which  looks  like  a 
river,  and  where  the  course  your  conveyance  is  to  take  is  indi 
cated  by  stakes  implanted  in  the  solid  part  of  that  '  undiscovered 
country'  over  which  you  are  rolling  as  it  were  in  a  ship.  Such 
was  our  experience  through  a  part  of  the  Genesee  region.  But  I 
caught  one  view  from  the  window  of  our  coach,  which  I  shall  not 


OLLAPODIANA. 

:soon  forget.  Along  the  distant  uplands  of  the  Genesee  there 
lay  a  long  plain  of  mist,  with  irregular  indentations,  like  the  bays, 
of  a  lake ;  above  them  arose  a  gorgeous  array  of  clouds,  and 
between  both,  a  wide  stretch  of  verdure.  The  mist  looked  like 
an  ocean ;  the  fragments  that  sailed  by  themselves,  or  hung  in 
motionless  masses  in  the  air,  appeared  like  towers  and  temples. 
The  effect  was  indescribably  magnificent. 


TEN  miles  to  the  east  of  Buffalo,  I  looked  out  from  our  con 
veyance,  filled  with  anxious  expectation.  For  the  most  part,  the 
day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm  ;  but  the  tempest  had 
passed  over,  the  winds  had  gone  back  to  their  caves,  and  the  sun 
looked  forth  from  the  west,  with  features  of  unutterable  beauty. 
A  vast  curtain  of  clouds  rolled  up  from  the  north  and  north-west, 
leaving  the  clarified  sky  -so  darkly  and  serenely  blue,  that  it 
almost  approached  the  purple.  It  was  that  part  of  the  heavens 
which  bent  its  unfathomable  arch  over  the  expanse  of  Erie  and 
Niagara,  on  its  resounding  journey  to  the  Ontario.  Far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  on  every  hand,  save  the  rising  road  toward  the 
west,  all  the  region  round  about  was  level  as  the  floor  of  a  city 
saloon.  But  the  radius  embraced  by  the  eye  was  small,  from 
that  very  circumstance.  The  only  evidence  we  had  of  our 
proximity  to  those  great  inland  oceans,  just  mentioned,  was 
traceable  in  the  bending  heads  of  those  distant  forest  trees  which 
were  higher  than  the  surrounding  monarchs  of  the  wild.  These, 
with  the  orchard  trees  on  both  sides  of  the  way,  inclined  to  the 
east  at  an  angle  of  three  horizontal  to  one  vertical  foot.  There 
were  the  symptoms  of  approach  to  Old  Erie.  There  the  con 
stant  winds  from  the  west  had  howled  their  winter  anthems,  and 
wailed  in  praise  of  the  strength  and  grandeur  of  Omnipotence. 
As  I  was  saying,  I  looked  forth  from  our  vehicle ;  and  becoming 
too  much  excited  with  expectation  to  remain  within,  a  gentleman, 
who  knew  my.  impatience,  counselled  me  to  wait  until  we  reached 
a  slight  eminence  beyond,  where  he  told  me  I  shpuld  in  all 
probability  behold  a  sight  worth  seeing.  This  vague  announce 
ment  sharpened  my  curiosity.  At  last,  the  trivial  eminence  was 
reached,  and  my  friend  bade  me  cast  my  glance  to  the  north 
west.  I  looked,  and  beheld,  rising  above  the  level  distance, 
apparently  thirty  miles  off,  a  spiral  pillar  of  steamy  mist,  against 
the  perfect  sky,  uplifting  itself  with  slow  and  solemn  movement, 
ending  in  a  column  of  faint,  and  quivering,  and  beautiful  crimson. 

'  What  do  you  think  that  is  ?'  said  my  friend. 
.Quite  unable  to  answer  the  question,  I  confessed  my  igno- 
£ance  in  the  phraseology  of  Polonius :  '  By  the  mass,  I  cannot  tell.' 

10 


146  OLLAPODIANA. 

1  That,'  said  he,  *  is  the  spray  from  the  Niagara  /' 
I  felt  my  blood  rush  quicker,  and  tingle  through  my  veins,  at 
the  mere  mention  of  the  name.  I  mounted  on  the  outside  with 
the  driver,  and  surveyed  every  object  near  and  far  with  the  in 
tense  delight  and  quick  sense  of  novelty  which  I  have  cherished 
from  my  youth. 

*  How  high  is  the  sun  V  I  inquired  of  the  postillion,  after  the 
seeming  lapse  of  a  few  moments,  as  the  great  orb  appeared  rap 
idly  nearing  the  horizon,  *  and  what  is  the  distance  from  Buffalo?' 

*  The  sun  is  two   hours  up  yet,  Sir,  and  I  expect  we  are  a 
mild  and  a  half  from  the  city — jest  about'  —  answered  Whip. 

It  was  not  without  a  laugh  at  his  idea  of  calling  Buffalo  a  city, 
that  I  buttoned  the  over-coat  which  the  freshening  wind  from 
Erie,  yet  unseen,  had  rendered  requisite,  and  abandoned  myseli 
to  the  intoxication  of  my  expectant  thoughts.  Shortly,  we  began 
to  ascend  a  rise  of  ground  ;  higher  sweeps  of  landscape  rolled 
upward  from  afar ;  smokes,  as  from  distant  steam-boats,  arose 
heavenward  ;  bright  domes  appeared ;  and  all  at  once  —  beauti 
ful  sight! — the  '  city?  with  its  spires,  and  squares,  and  streets, 
lay  at  my  feet ;  a  magnificent  thoroughfare,  Old  Main,  as  the 
BufFalonians  call  it,  stretched  for  miles  before  my  eye ;  palaces 
were  around  me ;  the  thick  spars  of  innumerable  ships  streamed 
their  colors  on  the  breeze  ;  water-craft  were  hastening  to  the 
Canadas,  lying  greenly  and  beautiful  across  the  bay;  and  beyond 
all,  Lake  Erie  stretched  its  tremblingly  blue  expanse  toward  the 
West,  with  shadows  of  golden  clouds  trailing  over  its  bosom,, 
and  ships  melting  afar  off  into  nothingness,  toward  the  chamber 
of  the  evening  sun  !  Reader,  Buffalo  is  a  wonder  and  a  marvel. 
Approach  it  as  I  did,  in  summer,  and  on  Sunday.  To  its  vari 
ous  portals,  as  did  the  strangers  to  old  Rome, 

•  '  Cast  round  thine  eyes,  and  see 
What  conflux  issuing  forth,  or  entering  in«; 
On  embassies  from  regions  far  remote, 
In  various  habits,  on  the  Appian  road, 
Or  on  the  Emilian.' 


THE  whole  of  the  Genesee  country  is  but  a  tame,  yet  it  is  a 
beautiful  prelude,  to  those  splendid  pictures  in  that  magnificent 
scenery  of  the  West,  of  which  Buffalo  forms  the  opening  view. 

'  Tell  me,'  said  I  to  my  Jehu,  '  what  is  the  population  of  this 
'  city?  which  we  are  approaching  ?' 

4  It  is  nigh  to  twenty  thousand,  friend  T  ejaculated  the  dis 
penser  of  impulses  to  the  cattle  before  Jiim,  with  an  evident  feel 


OLLAPODIANA.  147 

ing  of  pleasure  that  he  was  showing  wonders ;  '  and  what 's 
more,  stranger,  we  shall  soon  be  at  the  Eagle.  Jest  let  me  ask 
you,  'Squire,  did  you  ever  see  any  thing  like  that  'are?' 

I  turned  to  the  direction  of  his  whip,  to  the  south-west,  where 
a  bay  of  Erie  bent  into  the  woodlands,  stretching  for  miles. 

4  What  is  that  ?'  I  inquired. 

'  Why,  it 's  Buffalo  !  You  see  the  streets  of  the  outskirts, 
marked  out  in  the  edges  of  the  woods,  several  miles  off;  you 
see  the  white  buildings  among  the  green  trees,  where  the  stumps 
is  n't  yet  grubbed  up  ;  and  where  they  do  say,  that  sheep  and 
deer  is  enclosed  in  the  cellars  of  the  houses,  built  to  nearly  the 
second  story  ;  and  yet  they  say,  and  I  believe  it,  that  there  is  n't 
a  house  in  all  Buffalo,  fur  and  nigh,  out-skirts  and  m-skirts,  that 
has  n't  more  tenants  than  can  be  disposed  of.' 

I  continued  to  gaze  in  the  direction  he  had  pointed  ;  and 
truly  the  sight  was  beyond  the  blazon  of  tongue  or  pen.  It 
seemed  to  my  eye  as  if  more  than  half  of  the  city  of  Buffalo  had 
been  but  yesterday  redeemed  from  the  wilderness.  A  town  of 
brick,  large,  stately,  and  imposing  in  itself,  was  encompassed  on 
all  sides  by  extending  tenements  of  white,  sufficient  in  number 
to  form  a  dozen  country  villages  ;  in  the  middle  of  the  town  were 
country  seats,  surrounded  with  parks,  through  which  the  deer 
bounded,  as  in  those  early  days,  not  long  ago,  when  the  shores 
of  Erie  were  forests,  and  the  lake  was  crossed  only  by  the  ad 
venturous  canoe  of  the  daring  Indian  ;  when  if  a  young  Pale 
Face  came  to  tempt  them,  he  was  admonished  by  the  Red  Skins 
to  forbear : 

SON  of  the  stranger  !  wouldst  thou  take 

O'er  yon  blue  hills  thy  lonely  way, 
To  reach  the  still  and  shining  lake, 

Along  whose  banks  the  west  winds  play  ? 
Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile  ; 
Oh,  seek  not  thou  the  Fountain  Isle  ! 

Bright,  bright,  in  many  a  rocky  urn, 

The  waters  of  our  deserts  lie  ; 
Yet  at  their  source,  the  lip  shall  burn, 

Parched  with  the  fever's  agony  ; 
From  the  blue  mountains  to  the  main, 
Our  thousand  floods  may  roll  in  vain. 

Even  there  our  hunters  came  of  yore, 
Back  from  their  long  and  weary  quest ; 

Had  they  not  seen  the  untrodden  shore, 
And  could  they  midst  our  wilds  find  rest? 

The  lightning  of  their  glance  was  fled, 

They  dwelt  amoag  us  as  the  dead  ! 


148  OLLAPODIANA. 

They  lay  beside  the  glittering  rills, 
With  visions  in  their  darkened  eye  ; 

Their  joy  was  not  amidst  the  hills, 
Where  elk  and  deer  before  them  fly; 

Their  spears  upon  the  cedar  hung, 

Their  javelins  to  the  winds  were  flung. 

They  bent  no  more  the  forest  bow, 

They  armed  not  with  the  warrior-band ; 

The  moon  waved  o'er  them,  dim  and  slow  • — 
They  left  us,  for  the  Spirit  Land  ! 

Beneath  our  pines,  yon  green-sward  heap 

Shows  where  the  restless  found  their  sleep. 


FOR  the  rest,  wherein  is  narrated  the  visit  of  OLLAPOD  to  the 
Great  Cataract,  and  to  those  divers  points  of  interest  which  are 
to  be  found  by  the  way,  as  the  returning  traveler  journeys  toward 
the  Atlantic  sea-board,  is  it  not  all  recorded  in  the  diary,  of  which 
the  foregoing  is  but  a  little  part  ?  Of  a  verity,  dear  reader, 
Providence  permitting,  thou  shalt  hear  again,  anon,  from  'the 
man  of  many  wanderings.' 


NUMBER    FIFTEEN. 

October,  1836. 

SONOROUS  and  stirring  are  the  sounds  of  the  bell  at  the  Eagle, 
in  Buffalo,  which  summons  the  wayfarer  to  the  bolting  of  his 
meridian,  nocturnal,  and  matutinal  meal !  Wo  to  him,  the  edu 
cation  of  whose  jaws,  in  the  swift  movements  of  mastication,  has 
been  neglected  !  It  were  better  his  mother  had  not  borne  him, 
than  to  have  him  seated  at  the  table.  However,  I  say  nothing 
to  this  point.  Eating  is  earthly  and  sensual ;  and  the  knife-and- 
fork  system  of  pursuing  it,  especially  where  you  cannot  select 
your  own  hardware,  is  devilish.  Commend  me  to  the  Turk.  I 
could  not  eat  with  satisfaction  at  the  table  d'hote  of  any  inn  in 
the  country,  (some  ten  excepted,  which  it  would  be  invidious  to 
name)  did  the  table  groan  with  a  feast  like  that  which  covered 
the  parental  board  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel,  that  Dutch  beau  ideal 
of  our  beloved  Irving. 

o 

TALKING  of  WASHINGTON  IRVING.  I  take  it  for  granted, 
good  reader,  that  you  have  never  encountered  him  ;  for  be  it 
known,  except  in  the  elevated  circle  where  he  moves  and  shines, 
he  is  one  who  loves  not  to  be  '  seen  of  men.'  He  hates  your 


OLLAPODIANA.  149 

pointings-out  in  the  streets,  and  greetings  in  the  markets :  these  he 
leaves  to  be  struggled  after,  with  painful  yearnings,  by  the  flimsy 
fry  which  injudicious  friends  would  inflate  to  his  capacity  and 
standard.  It  is  a  year  ago  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  repeating 
the  pleasure  of  discernment  and  intercourse  with  this  genial,  af 
fectionate,  and  noble  man.  I  have  for  IRVING — and  I  am  will 
ing  to  confess  it  —  a  kind  of  love.  His  veracious  books,  com 
prising  the  History  of  New  York,  have  created  more  risibility 
under  my  waistcoat,  than  any  volumes  from  the  past  or  of  the 
present.  I  read  them  regularly  once  a  year.  There  is  about 
them  such  a  transparent  flow  of  wit — such  glorious  satire  —  such 
happiness  of  expression — such  more-than-meets-the-eye  phra 
ses —  that,  take  them,  up  when  and  where  I  will,  they  violate  my 
sobriety,  and  seduce  me  into  a  hearty  guffaw.  As  Geoffrey  Cray 
on,  I  am  charmed  with  him  ;  as  an  historian,  I  honor  him ;  as  a 
patriot  and  a  gentleman,  I  thoroughly  revere  him.  What  a  style 
is  his !  None  of  your  shallow  tinsel,  your  unnatural  emblems, 
your  forced  conceits,  your  windy  tropes  :  all  is  truth,  gentleness, 
nature.  God  bless  the  gentleman  !  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  't  is 
now  about  a  year  since  I  saw  him  last.  It  was  a  bridal  scene. 
Sweet  was  the  gusto  of  the  Marcobrunner  upon  the  lips  of  my 

friend  G and   his  comrade  OLLAPOD,  when  the  splendid 

coach  flashed  its  whirring  wheels  between  the  green  walks  of  the 
Park  and  our  apartment  at  the  Clinton.  (As  yet,  famed  Astor's 
was  not.)  *  Considerable  if  not  more'  were  the  oglings  we  re 
ceived,  as  our  satin-lined  coats  fluttered  their  white  aspects 
around  the  door  of  the  carriage  ;  and  the  flowery  favors  I  bore, 
elicited  envious  looks  '  from  each  pedestrian  churl,'  as  we  rolled 
along  Broadway  to Square. 

IMAGINE  it  a  few  moments  after  sunset,  in  a  superb  drawing- 
room,  a  few  steps  from  a  famous  plaza  — '  I  think  they  call  it.' 
The  rosy  lingering  of  a  June  sky  enable  you  to  discern  yourself 
surrounded  with  grooms  and  bride's-maids,  some  half  a  score. 
Carriages  bustle  up  beneath  you,  freighted  with  beauty  ;  the  harp 
rings  from  the  hall ;  the  sweet  perfume  from  a  hundred  bouquets 
float  through  the  apartment.  The  past  and  present  meet  togeth 
er.  Warm  hands  are  in  your  grasp ;  fair  smiles  and  happy 
laughter  beam  and  echo  around.  '  Where,'  one  could  not  but 
think,  <  may  we  all  be  within  the  year  !  Some,  now  around  me, 
will  be  on  the  ocean,  in  the  service  of  their  country ;  some  in 
Italy — some  in  Egypt  —  some  in  Greece.'  And  so  they  are. 

DESCEND  with  me  to  the  bridal  saloon.     There  stands  the 


150  OLLAPODIANA. 

holy  man.  We  proceed,  '  in  order  due  ;'  and  forming  that  '  open 
line,'  which  never  looks  so  beautiful  as  on  such  an  occasion, 
hear  the  vows  that  bind  together  two  loving  hearts.  Silks  rustle, 
kisses  echo,  diamonds  gleam — fairy  voices  murmur  around.  By 
the  way,  that  kissing  is  a  pleasant  business.  It  is  highly  com 
mended  of  St.  Paul ;  and  though  I  may,  as  that  worthy  apostle 
once  said  of  himself,  '  speak  as  a  fool,'  yet  I  am  going  to  make 
a  hitherto  unattempted  literary  effort.  I  trust  it  will  be  well  '  got 
up.'  I  am  going  to  do  what  Solomon  said  could  not  be  done ; 
namely,  describe  something  new.  This  is  the  age  of  improve 
ment.  '  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  stand  back,  and  you  will  see' — 
a  kiss  on  paper.  Do  n't  be  incredulous.  I  will  give  you  the 
sound  in  types.  Listen !  When  two  pair.s  of  affectionate  lips 
are  placed  together,  to  the  intent  of  osculation,  the  noise  educed 
is  something  like  the  ensuing — epe-st'weep'st-e'e! —  and  then  the 
sound  tapers  off  so  softly  and  so  musical,  that  no  letters  can  do 
it  justice.  But  this  is  a  digression.  If  any  one  thinks  my  de 
scription  imperfect,  let  him  surpass  it,  if  he  can  ! 

*  WHO  is  that  gentleman,  standing  by  the  pier-table,  in  the 
other  drawing-room  ?'  said  I  to  a  friend.     *  I  am  oblivious  of  his 
name,  but  his  countenance  is  familiar.     He  has  a  noble  fore 
head —  a  discerning  eye  —  a  most  goodly  presence.     How  the 
organs  of  humor  expand  in  his  temples  !      What  a  benevolent 
smile  plays  around  his  lips  !  —  and  he  seems,  too,  the  focus  of 
all  eyes.' 

*  Yes,'  I  was  answered,  '  and  he  deserves  it.     That  is  WASH 
INGTON  IRVING.' 

The  remembrance  of  the  face  struck  me  in  a  moment.  We 
had  met  before,  but  not  as  acquaintances ;  and  the  pleasure  of 
an  introduction  offered  by  my  friend,  a  long-tried  compeer  of 
CRAYON,  was  accepted  with  prompt  alacrity.  My  memory  of 
that  interview,  and  the  prolonged  colloquy  to  which,  from  cir 
cumstances,  it  gave  rise,  is  really  among  the  most  pleasant  of  my 
life.  Irving  had  unknowingly  done  me  sundry  favors  abroad, 
when  Secretary  of  Legation  at  the  Court  of  St.  James,  by  the 
transmission  of  letters  for  me  to  America,  through  the  department 
of  state.  For  these  I  thanked  him  cordially.  A  stoup  of  wine 
followed  ;  and  how  numerous  were  the  excellent  sayings  that 
went  forth  from  his  lips,  over  those  gouts  of  floating  gold  we 
quaffed  together !  Geoffrey  seemed  almost  disposed,  for  the 
nonce,  to  eulogize  the  Benedict.  '  The  rustling  of  silks  and  the 
creaking  of  shoes  betrayed  his  fond  heart  to  woman.'  A  gleam 
of  genuine  pleasure  laughed  in  his  eye.  In  dress  simple — in 


OLLAPODIANA.  151 

manners  gentle,  and  easily  entreated  —  he  takes  the  hue  of  the 
time  and  the  taste  of  his  company  so  gracefully  upon  himself, 
that  you  think  you  have  known  him  for  years.  And  if  you  are 
•a  reader,  so  you  have.  I  wondered  at  the  verdict  once  given  me 

respecting  him,  by  Fanny  K ,  that  at  the  aristocratic  dinners 

of  London  he  was  quite  reserved,  and  sometimes  sleepy.  Me- 
thought  (as  he  passed  on  from  subject  to  subject  without  impedi 
ment —  from  the  changes  in  the  city  of  his  heart,  since  the  days 
of  Stuyvesant  and  Van  Twiller — correcting  now  and  then,  with 
right  good  will,  my  erroneous  pronunciation  of  some  of  those 
jaw-sundering  Dutch  names)  that  there  was  something  in  the  at 
mosphere  of  home,  and  the  sweet  pomp  of  a  bridal  scene,  which 
won  upon  his  affection,  and  sent  a  genial  glow  to  his  inmost  heart. 
Would  that  the  properties  of  social  life  might  permit  a  transcript 
of  the  constant  felicities  which  he  then  and  there  diffused  into  the 
porches  of  mine  ear !  Thoughts,  common  perhaps  in  themselves, 
clothed  in  such  exquisite  and  telling  expression ;  fancies  evoked 
from  every-day  facts ;  happy  terms  and  phrases  innumerable. 
Could  I  record  them,  how  much  wrould  they  enrich  this  my  fifth 
subsection  of  number  fifteen  ! 

REVENONS  A  BUFFALO.  He  who  would  form  a  just  appre 
ciation  of  this  wonderful  city,  let  him,  as  I  did,  (if  he  have  liter 
ary  acquaintances  and  comrades  of  the  mind,  but  personally  un 
known,)  take  the  arm  of  a  friend,  and  as  the  twilight  comes  on, 
go  down  through  Main-street  to  the  Erie  pier.  What  a  sight ! 
It  is  one  which  makes  the  heart  of  the  observer  swell  with  pride 
that  he  was  born  an  American.  l  It  was  a  Sunday  evening,'  as 
Southey  would  say,  when  I  coursed  with  my  friend  along  the 
crowded  quay  of  Buffalo.  The  sun  had  gone  down  beyond  the 
far  headlands  toward  the  Occident,  and  a  track  of  quivering  gold 
stretched  for  leagues  to  the  west,  over  the  dancing  waves  of  that 
inland  Ocean,  Erie — portraying  the  ruddy  brightness  of  the  day- 
god's  car.  Inspiring  music  filled  the  atmosphere  ;  the  streamers 
of  steam  craft,  (ready,  like  a  mighty  war-horse,  to  burst  their 
tether,  and  pawing  the  waves  with  impatience,)  flouted  the  sky  ; 
the  tramp  of  unnumbered  feet  echoed  along  the  pavements ;  the 
church-going  bells  rang  from  afar.  I  stopped  for  some  minutes 
to  gaze  upon  the  face  of  a  beautiful  Indian  girl,  of  the  Seneca 
tribe,  as  she  offered  me  her  gay-colored  moccasins.  I  would 
not  buy — but  I  could  not  go.  I  waited,  therefore,  with  pleased 
delay,  affecting  not  to  understand  her  broken  English  ;  watching, 
the  while,  how  her  voluptuous  lashes  rose  and  fell  over  those 
dark,  surprised,  and  dewy  eyes.  She  was  perhaps  sixteen ; 


152  OLLAPODIANA. 

graceful  beyond  words,  yet  stately  as  Juno,  and  her  form  mould 
ed  in  the  fulness  of  youth.  There  was  such  a  world  of  intelli 
gence  in  her  glance,  and  in  that  soft  blush,  half  olive  and  half 
ruby,  which  glowed  on  her  cheek,  that  (I  might  as  well  own 
it)  the  bosom  of  OLLAPOD  was  marvellously  troubled.  Laugh 
not,  reader — but  to  that  bright  remnant  of  a  perishing  race  the 
enthusiastic  Benedict  kissed  his  hand  !  Yes,  and  the  tawny 
digits  of  the  fair  Seneca  went  to  her  lips,  and  a  smile,  bright  as 
a  line  of  unsullied  sunlight  from  the  pearly  gates  of  Eden,  beam 
ed  upon  the  parting  glance  of  OLLAPOD.  'T  was  evanescent  — 
but  how  nice  !  

I  HAVE  no  idea  of  being  statistical :  my  limited  acquaintance 
with  DABOLL,  and  other  arithmetical  gentlemen,  forbids  me  from 
dabbling  in  figures.  But,  if  any  one  desires  to  see  practical  mul 
tiplication^  whether  in  persons  or  in  property,  let  him  go  to  Buf 
falo.  '  Where  are  those  steamers  bound  ?'  asked  I  of  my  friend, 
as  we  stood  upon  the  pier  which,  in  front  of  warehouses  for  many 
a  rood  in  extent,  was  covered  to  the  height  of  fifteen  and  some 
times  twenty  feet  with  unhoused  merchandise,  for  which  the 
houses  themselves,  glutted  to  the  overflow,  had  not  admission. 

'  Oh,  only  a  few  hundred  miles  up  the  lake.' 

'  A.  few  hundred  miles  /'  I  exclaimed  astonished  :  '  In  the  name 
of  aquatic  locomotion,  how  far  can  they  go  ?  Do  you  pretend 
to  say  they  can  proceed  farther  to  the  west  than  I  have  come 
from  the  south-east  ?' 

A  hearty  laugh  followed  this  observation,  which  startled  the  by 
standers.  Just  at  this  moment  a  steamer  got  under  way.  She 
moved  majestically  along  the  side  of  the  pier,  passing  ships  al 
most  innumerable ;  bugles  and  trumpets  hallowed  the  air  with 
those  national  songs  which  do  so  stir  my  blood ;  and  really  I  am 
quite  unable  to  describe  my  elateness  of  spirit,  as  she  turned  the 
point  where  the  light-house  lifts  its  tall  pharos  over  land  and 
wave,  and  went  musically  along  the  bosom  of  Erie,  the  wreaths 
of  smoke  and  flame  shooting  in  gusty  grandeur  from  her  chim 
neys.  Fifteen  hundred  miles  might  that  craft  travel  along  the 
west,  toward  the  setting  sun.  What  was  lately  there  ?  The  howl 
of  the  wolf  and  the  Indian,  the  whoop  on  the  war-trail,  and  the 
solemn  yell  around  the  council-fire.  From  those  dim  shores, 
now  fading  into  the  indistinctness  of  twilight,  went  up  the  smoke 
of  the  wigwam,  or  the  gleam  from  the  pine  torch,  by  whose  light 
the  red  man  guided  his  venturous  canoe  !  What  is  there  now  ? 
Towns  rear  their  bristling  spires  and  masts,  and  send  their  spirit- 
loats  along  the  waters  like  things  of  life :  the  hallowed  chimes 


OLLAPODIANA.  153 

of  the  Sabbath  reach  the  Indian  in  his  hut,  and  the  raven  on  his 
bough.  The  Past  has  vanished  as  a  scroll ;  and  the  bustling,  the 
usual  Present  is  around  us,  with  the. hiss  of  its  rail-road  engines, 
the  thunders  of  its  steaming  apparatus,  and  the  rolling  of  the  tri 
umphant  wheels  of  commerce.  It  seems  to  me,  too,  that  in  these 
western  regions  the  soul  of  man  glows  with  a  newer  fire,  and 
fresher  impulse  ;  as  if  some  Indian  Prometheus,  seeing  the  decay 
of  the  Red  Nations,  had  sent  a  fervent  spirit  into  the  bosoms  of 
their  white  successors.  A  word  here  in  the  reader's  ear.  If 
thou  goest  to  Buffalo,  ascend  thee  to  the  dome  of  the  American^ 
and  cast  thine  eyes  southward.  There,  league  on  league,  stretch 
es  the  blue  and  primeval  wilderness,  and  from  the  wigwams  of 
the  Senecas  the  smokes  go  up,  as  in  the  days  when  the  whole 
forest  was  their  dominion,  and  the  Pale  Faces  feeble  and  few. 
Look  then  around  you.  Magic  is  there  !  The  tide  of  power, 
rising  and  rolling  onward,  sends  its  roar  to  your  ear ;  and  you 
see  the  progress  of  that  mighty  flood  of  enterprise  which  is  yet  to 
fill  the  West  with  a  noble  and  prosperous  people.  If  you  are 
an  American,  your  heart  will  bound  proudly  within  you,  until 
you  will  feel  as  if,  like  the  green  mountains  of  ancient  Israel,  you 
could  break  forth  into  singing.  If  you  love  your  native  land, 
travel  through  it,  and  your  affection  will  increase  and  multiply 
mightily.  Yes,  my  glorious  country !  every  additional  mile  I 
traverse  of  thy  boundaries,  adds  to  the  flame  of  my  attachment. 
Filled  with  a  brave  and  generous  people,  who  have  done  more  in 
the  same  space  of  time  than  any  nation  ever  did  to  promote  the 
honor  and  liberty  of  man — I  love  thee  !  Thou  hast,  too,  thank 
GOD  !  the  elements  of  perpetuity  within  thee  : 

'  SEAS,  and  stormy  air, 

A.re  the  wide  barriers  of  thy  borders,  where 
Thou  laugh'st  at  enemies  ;  who  shall  then  declare 
The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy  in  thy  lap  the  sons  of  men  shall  dwell !' 

I  WOKE  early  at  the  Eagle,  excited  and  unrefreshed.  The 
idea  of  seeing  Niagara  the  next  day  impressed  me  so  deeply, 
when  I  retired  the  evening  before,  that  I  was  unable  to  sleep  ; 
and  had  I  been  thus  disposed,  there  were  influences  enough 
about  me  to  prevent  somnolency,  even  in  a  sloth.  It  was  the 
Eden  of  a  weasel,  the  place  where  I  lay.  The  apartment  was 
named  The  Pasture,  by  a  facetious  fellow-traveller ;  and  verily, 
many  were  the  bipedal  animals  who  '  ruminated  bedward'  there 
in.  I  slept  opposite  a  speculator  in  Michigan  lands  ;  and,  as  if 
determined  never  to  be  caught  napping,  he  slept  with  his  eyes 
open.  The  effect  was  really  frightful.  By  the  light  of  the  moon* 


154 


OLLAPODIANA 


streaming  through  the  window,  I  saw  his  cunning  optics  —  full 
of  bargain  and  sale — glaring  upon  me.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  mortal  light  had  departed  from  them  ;  yet  still  they 
glared  into  mine.  I  aver,  with  sincerity,  that  those  eyes  never 
closed  the  live-long  night.  They  seemed  alive — yet  dead.  I 
thought  of  Coleridge's  lines  in  the  '  Auntient  Marinere  :' 

*  AN  orphan's  curse  might  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 
But  oh  !  more  terrible  than  that, 

Is  the  curse  of  a  dead  man's  eye  : 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die.' 

One  who  is  not  single  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  should  bestow 
his  rib  and  maid  in  an  adjacent  apartment,  taking  himself  what 
the  gods  might  be  willing  to  confer  in  such  emergencies.  As  I 
said,  I  awoke  early ;  and  performing  certain  orisons  with  a  razor 
belonging  to  the  establishment,  (Goo  knows  how  many  chins  it 
has  reaped  in  its  time  !)  before  a  glass  which  screwed  my  coun 
tenance  into  a  horrific  caricature,  I  made  ready  to  accompany 
t  self  and  party'  to  the  Falls. 


BEHOLD  us  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  Victory.  The  breeze 
of  morning  is  fresh  and  fair ;  the  engine  hisses  and  trembles  ; 
carriages  throng  to  the  pier  ;  ladies,  with  albums  under  their  arms, 
thick  green  veils  over  their  pretty  faces,  and  in  habiliments  of 
travel,  throng  on  board.  Agitation  and  expectancy  give  them 
color  ;  veil  after  veil  is  put  back,  like  gossamer  ;  calm  brows  and 
glancing  eyes  appear.  Among  these,  OLLAPOD  recognises  many  ; 
some,  seen  and  flirted  with  of  yore.  By  and  by  the  green 
waters  of  Erie  begin  to  melt  into  the  less  turbulent  Niagara ;  you 
float  calmly  along,  observing  and  observed.  How  much  pleas 
ure  is  clustered  in  such  moments  ! 


THERE  is,  among  those  who  have  not  seen  it,  a  wonderful 
misapprehension  respecting  the  river  Niagara.  It  is  not  like  a 
river  ;  it  seems  a  moving  lake.  Grand  Island,  too,  with  the  un 
initiated,  is  deemed  a  small  tract  of  ground,  without  particular 
attractions  ;  a  place,  perhaps,  for  the  country-seat  of  some  mil 
lionaire.  Yet  it  is  between  three  or  four  leagues  long,  and  the 
greater  part  of  it  is  a  solid  wilderness,  with  as  it  were  a  lake  on 
either  side.  Perhaps,  untravelled  reader,  this  may  give  you  an 
idea  of  the  river  of  Niagara. 


OLLAPODIANA.  155 

As  YOU  approach  the  northern  end  of  Grand  Island,  anticipa 
tion  stands  on  tiptoe.  I  ascended  to  that  sacred  portion  of  the 
steamer  y'clept  the  roof  of  the  wheel-house,  where  the  sound  of 
the  paddles  gurgled  out  a  kind  of  lullaby  to  my  spirit.  The  blue 
sky  had  changed  :  from  the  waves  of  Ontario,  and  the  stretch  of 
Niagara,  the  morning  mists  had  arisen,  and  formed  into  clouds. 
These  rolled  upward,  in  long  ribs  of  purple  and  gold,  from  the 
north,  one  above  another,  like  some  celestial  stair-case,  leading, 
as  did  the  dreamy  ladder  of  Jacob,  into  Heaven.  As  we  parted 
the  ripples  with  a  nimble  prow,  the  deer  were  seen,  starting 
from  their  coverts,  in  the  woods  of  the  island,  while  the  eagle, 
scared  from  the  arms  of  his  favorite  and  aspiring  cedar,  soared 
with  his  shrill  scream  into  the  abyss  of  Heaven,  where  his  form 
was  soon  swallowed  up  in  the  distance. 

SHORTLY  after  you  leave  Grand  Island,  you  expand  into  a 
scene  which,  to  my  agitated  remembrance,  resembles  the  Tap- 
pan  Zee  of  the  Hudson.  All  now  is  expectation.  Every  eye 
is  bent  to  the  north.  '  How 'far  is  it  from  Chippewa?'  asked  I, 
of  a  friendly  delegation  of  journalists  and  legislators,  whose  ge 
nial  spirits  and  intercourse  I  cherish  with  the  warmest  recollec 
tions.  *  Not  far,'  was  the  answer ;  *  you  will  be  there  soon.' 


AT  the  distance  of  five  miles  from  Niagara  Falls,  you  catch 
the  first  distinct  view.  Is  it  sublime?  No  —  for  distance  so 
softens  and  deceives,  that  you  can  not  appreciate  it.  You  strain 
your  outward-looking  eyes,  till  the  retina  aches  with  gazing. 
What  do  you  see?  A  cloud  of  apparent  smoke,  along  the 
northern  border,  the  nil  ultra  of  the  lake  you  are  ploughing  ;  and 
on  either  side  all  is  apparently  a  wide  shore  of  rocks  and  woods ; 
beyond,  a  terrible  gulf,  of  which  you  see  nothing  but  the  cease 
less  cloud  that  rises  at  its  dim  and  dismal  edge. 


*  AND  that  is  Niagara  /'  said  I,  as  the  mountainous  spray, 
volume  after  volume,  swelled  upward  in  the  sun.     *  Well,  I  seem 
.disappointed.' 

*  Do  you  ?'  said  my  friend,  the  legislator,  with  a  triumphant 
accent  on  the  first  branch  of  the  interrogation.     '  You  see  the 
cataract  is  as  yet  afar  off;  just  put  your  hand  to  your  ear,  guard 
ing  it  from  the  tumult  of  the  machinery,  and  tell  me  if  you  do 
not  hear  something  ?' 

I  did  so  ;  and  sonorous,  full,  and  replete  with  a  sense  of  awe, 
the  voice  of  the  cataract  swelled  in  my  ear. 


156  OLLAPODIANA. 

ALL  was  now  expectancy  and  enthusiasm.  I  could  scarcely 
stand  still.  Before  me,  like  the  pillar  of  fire  to  the  host  of  the 
Israelites,  rose  that  eternal  column  of  snowy  mist,  tinct  and  gar 
nished  by  the  sunbeam  —  and  I  had  caught  the  sound  of  Niagara. 

I  SCARCELY  know  how  I  left  Chippewa.  I  am  aware  that 
all  my  travelling  movements  and  precautions  were  executed  with 
habitual  discretion  ;  but  I  can  not  explain  to  any  one  the  new 
sensations  I  experienced  on  our  way  to  the  Falls.  When  at  the 
distance  of  some  two  miles  from  the  cataract,  there  seemed  to  be 
an  increasing  shadow,  like  that  of  an  eclipse,  in  the  atmosphere. 

The  dimness  increased  ;  and  on  passing  a  lapse  of  woods,  and 
emerging  again  in  sight  of  the  river,  I  felt  assured  that  a  storm 
was  coming  on.  I  ordered  our  postillion  to  stop. 

*  Is  there  no  house,'  I  inquired,  '  between  this  and  Niagara  ? 
There  is  a  thunder-shower  coming  on ;  I  hear  it  growling.' 

IT  would  have  done  your  heart  good,  to  have  heard  the  laugh 
of  that  driver.  It  was  loud  and  long  ;  it  bubbled  up  from  his 
heart,  as  if  what  he  had  just  heard  was  the  best  joke  he  had  lis 
tened  to  for  years. 

'  Bless  your  soul,  friend,  it  's  not  going  to  rain.  What  you 
see,  is  the  cloudy  mist,  and  what  you  hear,  is  the  roar  of  them 
Falls,  yender.  Jest  wait  a  minute  —  and  then ' 


'STOP  !'  said  I,  rising  in  our  barouche,  while,  gilded  by  the 
westering  sun,  I  caught,  as  we  wrheeled  around  a  clump  of  trees, 
the  first  view  of  the  vast  green  gulf  and  circle  of  the  Horse- Shoe 
Fall  

MY  good,  reader,  you  must  excuse  my  enthusiasm.  It  has 
been  said  that  Niagara  can  not  be  described.  I  think  it  can  be. 
Can  not  one  record  on  paper  the  thoughts  provoked  by  the  ob 
jects  of  grandeur  and  magnificence  that  have  met  his  eye  ?  Ver 
ily,  I  trow  so ;  and  I  will  try.  The  first  mistake  corrected  by 
an  approach  to  Niagara,  is  as  to  its  width.  You  have  supposed 
it  an  outlet  from  one  lake  to  another,  pressed  into  narrow  boun 
daries,  and  urged  onward  by  irresistible  impulses.  You  were  de 
ceived  by  fancy.  The  river  is  like  some  bay  of  an  ocean  ;  as  if 
indeed  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific,  one  far  below  the  other,  should 
meet,  by  the  former  being  narrowed  to  the  width  of  one  or  two 
miles,  and  falling  to  the  depth  of  more  than  two  hundred  feet, 
with  rocks  and  islands  on  the  edge  of  the  vast  gulf,  frowning  and 
waving  between* 


OLLAPODIANA.  157 

VERY  soon  we  reached  the  Pavilion.  The  selection  of  an 
apartment,  visitation  to  the  barber,  and  the  donning  of  a  cool 
summer  dress,  were  all  speedily  accomplished.  The  ceaseless 
hum  of  the  Falls  was  in  my  hearing — it  shook  the  windows  of 
the  Pavilion,  from  which  I  gazed.  Below,  at  a  few  rods  distance, 
the  mighty  Niagara  plunged  into  its  misty  abyss  :  above,  to  the 
south,  it  seemed  as  if  an  ocean,  fierce  as  that  tide  which  '  keeps 
due  on  to  the  Propontic  and  the  Hellespont,'  was  rushing  madly 
down  to  some  undiscovered  cavern,  where  its  fury  was  lost  and 
suspended  for  ever. 

DESCENDING  through  the  garden  and  the  open  common  which 
intervene  between  the  Pavilion  and  the  distant  river  to  the  east 
ward,  we  struck  the  road,  and  observed  the  sign  which  poipted 
'  iy  To  THE  FALLS.'  Here  let  me  say  a  word,  which  I  think 
will  give  the  idea  of  Niagara  vividly  to  one  who  has  never  seen 
it.  It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  looked  from  the  window  of  the  Pavil 
ion,  that  the  river  was  nearly  on  a  level  with  the  house.  Well, 
I  passed  over  the  places  I  have  mentioned  ;  and  at  the  guide-post 
aforesaid,  we  began  to  make  a  most  precipitous  descent,  over 
rude  stair-cases,  bedded  in  miry  clay.  In  a  few  moments  we 
were  nearly  on  a  level  with  the  river,  which  Was  in  full  view,  and 
close  at  hand.  At  that  instant,  the  first  impression  of  the  vast 
power  of  Niagara  struck  my  mind ;  but  it  was  faint  and  feeble, 
compared  with  those  that  succeeded.  For  miles,  looking  up 
ward  at  the  stream,  it  resembled  a  foaming  ocean,  vexed  by  the 
storms  of  the  equinox.  We  proceeded  to  the  house  which  heads 
the  perpendicular  descent  to  the  bed  of  the  river,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Falls.  Those  who  dress  for  deeds  of  aquatic  daring  with 
more  deliberation  than  myself,  would  have  changed  their  ordinary 
attire  for  those  simple  and  coarse  habiliments  usually  adopted  by 
those  adventurous  spirits  who  get  their  drenched  certificates  for 
going  under  the  sheet — but  for  my  part,  I  had  not  the  patience. 
Endowing  myself  with  an  oil-cloth  surtout,  I  began  to  descend 
the  stair-case  leading  to  the  base  of  the  cataract. 

THE  descent  seemed  interminable.  I  thought  I  had  travelled, 
an  hour,  still  moving  round  and  round  —  in  darkness,  and  alone. 
It  was  a  solemn  probation,  during  which  I  had  time  to  nerve  my 
spirit  for  the  grandeur  and  the  awe  with  which  it  was  soon  to  be 
impressed.  At  last,  I  made  my  egress  from  the  stair-case  into 
the  presence  of  the  Wonder. 

MY  first  idea  was,  that  a  tremendous  storm  had  brewed  since  I 
began  to  descend.  Several  rods  to  the  south,  the  Falls,  dimly 


158  OLLAPODIANA. 

seen,  boomed  and  thundered  with  a  noise  so  stunning,  that  I  was 
almost  distracted.  At  my  feet,  there  rolled  onward  what  seemed 
a  lake  of  milk — having  about  it  nothing  dark  —  not  even  a 
glimpse  of  water-color.  I  saw,  near  by,  a  tall  black  figure,  smil 
ing  graciously,  like  some  good-natured  Charon,  ready  to  trans 
port  his  customers  across  the  River  of  Death.  He  announced 
himself  as  the  conductor  of  gentlemen  under  the  Falls.  Taking 
his  hand,  I  approached  them.  At  a  certain  point,  as  we  drew 
nigh,  I  begged  him  to  stop.  The  mist  had  surged  upward  from 
my  vision,  and  before  me  broke  down,  as  it  were,  the  Atlantic^ 
from  a  height  so  dizzy  that  it  made  the  eye  shrink  from  gazing ; 
the  distant  side  of  the  vast  semicircle  hid  from  view  by  a  rain 
bow,  and  the  awful  mass  of  green,  mad  waters,  rushing  to  the 
abyss,  with  a  noise  like  the  breaking  up  of  chaos  !  What  is  like 
that  scene  !  It  is  itself  alone  ;  to  depict  it  comparisons  fail.  You 
must  describe  itself. 

I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  such  a  sense  of  awe  and  majesty 
descended  at  that  moment  upon  my  spirit,  that  I  burst  into  tears, 
and  shivered  through  every  nerve.  What  an  awful  hum  and 
moaning  pierced  the  hearing  sense  !  Above  me,  hideous  rocks 
rose  for  hundreds  of  feet ;  dark  shelves,  wet  with  the  eternal 
tempest  around  them  ;  and  at  every  moment  a  stormy  gust  would 
drive  a  deluge  of  water  in  my  face,  taking  my  breath,  and  chill 
ing  me,  as  it  were  in  the  depth  of  the  solstice,  even  to  the  bone. 
As  we  shouldered  the  dark  ledges  which  extended  under  the 
sheet,  I  almost  shrank  from  the  desperate  undertaking ;  and 
never  did  lover,  howsoever  deeply  skilled  in'  *  holy  palmistry,' 
press  the  jewelled  hand  of  his  mistress  with  such  affection  as 
that  wherewith  OLLAPOD  grasped  the  sable  fingers  of  his  African 
conductor.  His  splay  feet  and  amphibious-looking  heels  seem 
ed  to  stamp  him  some  creature  of  the  elements ;  a  Caliban, 
schooled  to  generous  offices  by  some  supernatural  master. 

WHEN  you  approach  within  ten  feet  or  so  of  that  tremendous 
launch  of  waters,  then  is  the  time  to  pause  for  a  moment,  to  steep 
and  saturate  your  soul  with  one  pre-eminent  and  grand  remem 
brance.  For  me,  if  millions  of  human  beings  had  been  around 
me,  I  should  have  felt  alone — and  as  one  who,  having  passed 
beyond  the  dominions  of  mortality,  stood  presented  before  the 
marvels  of  his  God  !  It  is  a  place  for  the  silent  adoration  of  the 
heart  for  HIM 

'Who  made  the  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountain.' 

"Whence  came  those  ceaseless  and  resounding  floods  ?     From 


OLLAPODIANA.  159 

the  '  hollow  hand'  of  Omnipotence  !  Fancy  stretches  and  plumes 
her  adventurous  pinions  from  this  point :  she  goes  onward  to  the 
Upper  Lakes,  and  their  peopled  shores ;  she  pursues  her  voyage 
to  the  dark  streams  and  inland  seas  of  the  west ;  and  returning, 
finds  their  delegated  waters  pouring  heavily  and  with  eternal 
thunder  down  that  dizzy  steep  !  Thought,  preying  upon  itself, 
is  lost  in  one  deep  and  profound  sense  of  awe  ;  of  recollection, 
of  prospect.  I  may  change  one  word  from  Byron,  to  express 
my  meaning : 

'  BY  those  that  deepest  feel,  is  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness  of  the  laboring  breast : 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin,  to  end  in  one, 
"Which  seek  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none.' 

From  the  spot  of  which  I  speak,  you  can  easily  imagine  that 
there  has  come  upon  you  the  deluge,  or  the  day  of  doom.  The 
voices  of  eternity  seem  to  burden  the  air;  look  up,  and  the  dark 
rocks,  like  the  confines  of  Plegethon,  seem  tottering  to  their  fall ; 
where  you  stand,  the  whirlwind  which  bears  upon  its  pinions 
drops  heavier  than  those  of  the  most  dismal  tempest  that  ever 
rent  the  wilderness  on  land,  or  wrecked  an  armament  at  sea,  is 
moaning  and  howling.  Casting  a  glance  at  the  upper  verge  of 
the  Falls,  you  see  the  turbulent  rapids,  thick,  green,  and  high, 
shrinking  back,  as  it  were,  from  their  perilous  descent,  until  a 
mass  of  waves  behind  urges  them,  resistless,  onward ;  to  speak 
in  thunder,  and  to  rise  in  mist  and  foam,  the  children  of  strife, 
yet  parents  of  the  rainbow,  that  emblem  of  peace. 

I  ONCE  asked  an  elderly  friend,  in  whose  domicil  I  was  a  fa 
vored  inmate,  and  who  suffered  much  from  the  gout,  whether 
there  might  be  any  pain,  known  to  myself,  which  would  compare 
with  it.  '  No  !'  he  replied  :  '  I  never  met  anything  of  the  sort  in 
my  life  :  there  is  nothing  on  earth  like  it ;  and  I  am  destitute  of 
any  descriptive  comparison.  I  am  not  dead  at  present ;  I  hav'  n't 
been  as  yet  to  Tophet ;  and  therefore  can't  tell  whether  gout  is 
like  that,  or  purgatory-;  but  I  believe  it  to  be  as  near  that  as  any 
thing.'  It  is  thus  with  Niagara.  There  is  no  emblem  :  it  has  no 
rival  —  it  is  like  no  rival.  Its  multitudinous  waves  have  a  glory 
and  a  grandeur  of  their  own,  to  which  nothing  can  be  added, 
and  from  which  nothing  can  be  taken  away. 

IT  has  been  said,  that  the  tremors  or  presentiments  of  those 
who  march  to  battle,  are  dissipated  by  the  bustling  of  caparisoned 
horses,  the  rolling  of  the  war-drum,  the  clangor  of  the  trumpet, 
the  clink  and  fall  of  swords,  *  the  noise  of  the  captains  and  the 


1GU  OLLAPODIANA. 

shouting.'  Some  such  kind  of  inspiration  is  given  to  the  thought 
ful  and  observant  man,  who  goes  under  the  Great  Fall  of  Niagara. 
As  I  moved  along  behind  my  sable  guide,  holding  on  to  his 
dexter, 

4  Even  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  its  mother's  breast;' 

while  the  waters  dashed  fiercer  and  more  fiercely  around  about 
me ;  methought  I  had,  in  an  evil  hour,  surrendered  myself  to 
perdition,  and  was  now  being  dragged  thither  by  the  ebon  paw 
of  Satan.  Shortly,  however,  the  stormy  music  of  Niagara  took 
possession  of  my  soul ;  and  had  Abaddon  himself  been  there,  I 
could  have  followed  him  home.  For  one  moment,  only,  I 
faltered.  The  edge  of  the  sheet  nearest  the  Canada  side,  from 
its  rude  and  fretting  contact  with  the  shore  above,  comes  down 
with  a  stain  of  reddish  brown.  Near  Termination  Rock,  you 
pass  by  that  dim  border  of  the  Fall,  and  exchanging  recent  dark 
ness  for  the  green  and  spectral  light  struggling  through  the  thick 
water,  you  are  enabled  to  discern  where  you  are.  My  GOD  !  It 
is  enough  to  make  an  earth-tried  angel  shudder,  familiar  though 
he  may  be  with  the  wonder-workings  of  the  Eternal.  Look  up 
ward  !  There,  forming  a  dismal  curve  over  your  head,  and 
looming  in  the  deceptive  and  unearthly  light,  to  a  seeming  dis 
tance  of  many  hundred  feet,  moaning  with  that  ceaseless  anthem 
which  trembles  at  their  base,  the  rocks  arise  toward  Heaven, 
covered  with  the  green  ooze  of  centuries,  hanging  in  horrid 
shelves,  and  apparently  on  the  very  point  of  breaking  with  the 
weight  of  that  accumulated  sea  which  tumbles  and  howls  over 
their  upper  verge  !  There  is  no  scene  of  sublimity  on  earth 
comparable  to  this.  You  stand  beneath  the  rushing  tributes  from 
a  hundred  lakes  ;  you  seem  to  hear  the  wailings  of  imprisoned 
spirits,  until,  fraught  and  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  you 
exclaim,  '  THERE  is  A  GOD  !  and  this  vast  cataract,  awful,  over 
powering  as  it  is,  is  but  a  plaything  of  HIS  hand !' 


THERE  is  one  dreadful  illusion  to  which  the  untrained  eye  is 
subject,  under  this  water-avalanche.  You  know,  travelled  reader, 
that  when  you  journey  swiftly  in  a  rail-road  car,  the  landscape 
seems  moving  past  you  with  the  speed  of  lightning.  You  see 
distant  trees  and  fields,  apparently  out  of  compliment  to  the  loco 
motive,  wheeling  off  obsequiously  to  the  right  and  left.  Every 
grove  seems  engaged  in  a  rigadoon.  This  illuso  visus  is  particu 
larly  discernible  on  the  face  of  Niagara,  when  you  are  beneath  the 
Palls.  Look  at  the  sheet  but  for  one  moment,  and  you  find  yourself 


OLLAPODIANA.  161 

rising  upward  with  the  swiftness  of  thought.  Turning  your 
eye  to  the  rocky  wall  which  bounds  you,  for  a  moment  you  give 
a  side-long  glance  at  its  dizzy  extent.  Heavens  !  what  was  that 
noise  ?  Did  not  a  portion  of  the  rock  above,  some  massy  moun 
tain  of  stone,  then  fall  ?  No,  it  was  only  the  thunder  of  com 
mingled  rapids,  which  united  at  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and 
rushed  impetuously  into  the  abyss  together.  It  is  this  which 
makes  such  heavy  music,  such  solemn  tones,  in  the  distant  voice 
of  Niagara.  

A  MOST  thorough  bath,  such  a  one  as  I  never  took  before, 
gave  me,  after  my  changed  dress,  and  proper  probation,  a  supe 
rior  appetite  for  joining  a  supper  party  at  the  Pavilion.  I  re 
member  the  pleasure  I  once  enjoyed,  during  a  summer  sojourn 
at  West  Point  among  congenial  spirits.  Every  day,  at  dinner,  in 
the  large  mirrors  which  bedeck  the  dining  saloon  at  COZZEN'S 
capital  establishment,  what  time  we  discussed  viands  and  wines, 
I  could  see  the  reflected  Hudson  and  its  shores,  the  distant 
mountains  towering  into  the  sky,  and  steam-craft  moving ;  while 

from  town  to  town. 


The  snowy  sails  went  gleaming  down.' 

You  seem  to  think,  if  you  are  anything  of  an  economist,  at 
Niagara,  that  you  are  likely  to  get  from  your  host  the  worth  of 
your  money.  He  gives  you  *  green  or  black  tea,'  and  all  the  ap 
pointments  of  a  good  supper,  and  he  flings  in  a  view  of  Niagara 
from  the  dining-room  windows,  without  any  extra  expense  !  Its 
music  shakes  your  hand  as  you  lift  your  coffee  to  your  lip ;  its 
bounding  and  agitated  lapse  smites  your  eye,  as  you  sip  the  juice 
of  the  Mocha  berry,  yet  you  never  find  it  P  the  bill.  If  you  wish 
to  be  fleeced,  however,  employ  a  guide  to  tell  you  when  is  the 
time  to  say  'Good  gracious!  how  sublime!'  and  to  show  you 
the  thousand  little  nothings  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Falls,  which, 
compared  with  them,  are  as  it  might  be  to  pit  a  flea  in  fight 
against  a  lion  or  an  elephant.  Ye  blind  guides !  door-keepers 
of  the  gates  of  sublimity,  which  you  can  not  speak  of  or  describe, 
save  in  the  stale  terms  of  business !  Ye  tell  a  man  whose  heart 
and  mind  are  overflowing  with  awe  and  wonder  when  to  use  his 
eyes !  Ye  are  varlets  all ;  akin  to  that  enterprising  man,  men 
tioned,  if  I  mistake  not,  by  Goldsmith,  who  issued  proposals  to 
bite  off  his  own  nose  by  subscription ;  or,  rather,  to  that  builder 
of  chapeaux,  who  exclaimed  in  a  paroxysm  of  delight,  as  he 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  Canada  Fall,  « By  the  LORD  !  what  a 
glorious  placed/or  washing  hats!"' 


162  OLLAPODIANA. 

WELL,  I  have  sojourned  near  and  surveyed  Niagara,  until  it 
is  pictured  in  my  mind,  and  I  know  it  as  it  were  a  favorite  book. 
A  word  here,  then,  to  tourists  who  have  that  chief  marvel  of  the 
world  to  see.  There  will  perhaps  be  disappointment  in  a  far-off 
view,  as  you  go  from  the  south ;  for  the  majestic  rush  of  the 
rapids,  and  the  heavy  plunge  of  the  fall,  you  can  not  see.  To 
my  New  York  reader  I  can  give  a  simile.  Supposing  the  Hud 
son  ran  from  the  bay  of  your  metropolis  rapidly  to  the  north. 
Plant  its  shores,  from  the  city  to  the  Palisades,  with  bold  head 
lands  and  ancient  forests.  At  the  Palisades,  let  the  river  break 
off,  and  fall  to  the  distance  of  between  one  and  two  hundred  feet, 
and  then  go  heaving  onward  to  Sing-Sing,  through  a  huge  natu 
ral  canal,  wide  as  itself,  crowned,  at  the  top  of  the  high  pre 
cipices  which  border  its  sides,  with  shaggy  pines  and  hemlocks, 
and  flowery  shrubs  and  parasites,  where  the  vulture  wheels,  and 
the  boding  owl  makes  his  complaint  at  evening.  This  is  a  faint 
idea  of  Niagara.  You  should  sit  for  hours,  in  the  eastern  portico 
of  the  Pavilion,  looking  at  the  waves  as  they  rush  over  the 
Horse-Shoe  Fall.  Continually,  large  masses  of  them,  green  as 
the  richest  verd-antique,  shoot  in  blended  company  down  into 
the  *  abysm  of  hell'  beneath.  From  this  point  they  are  full  of 
beauty.  Unable  to  keep  together,  they  burst  into  foam  ;  so  that 
the  continual  recurrence  of  this  has  the  effect  of  a  long  waste  of 
the  finest  embroidery,  in  flowers,  leaves,  and  vines,  on  a  ground 
of  green.  Over  them  plays  the  rainbow,  spanning  them  with  its 
heavenly  arch,  and  shining  lovingly  upon  the  madness  of  which 
it  is  created ;  stretching  itself  to  the  distant  island,  where  its 
ethereal  colors  smile  on  the  rich  woods  and  golden  waters.  There, 
in  the  portico  aforesaid,  is  the  place  to  sit  and  inly  ruminate.  I 
saw  one  fat  John  Bull,  '  a  round  and  stocky  man,'  in  a  checked 
travelling  shirt,  and  a  swallow-tailed  coat,  whose  skirts  were  al 
most  pulled  round  beneath  his  arms,  standing  like  some  corpu 
lent  fowl  on  the  last  ledge  of  Table  Rock,  peering  into  the  Falls, 
then  only  about  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  his  side,  with  a  telescope 
twice  as  long  as  his  body  !  It  was  a  pure  specimen  of  the  sub 
lime  and  the  ridiculous. 


HERE  let  me  play  the  counsellor  to  the  visiter  at  Niagara.  I 
offer  my  opinion  with  confident  diffidence.  Doubtless  you  desire 
to  receive  at  the  Falls,  and  to  carry  away  with  you,  the  strongest 
impression.  Do  not  therefore  go  down  to  the  foot  of  the  cata 
ract  on  the  Canada  side.  Take  your  coup  d'ceil  as  you  drive  in 
your  carriage  to  the  Pavilion.  Take  your  supper  there,  as  did 
the  goodly  company  of  your  adviser,  OLLAPOD.  Supposing  you 


OLLAPODIANA.  163 

are  an  American  —  which  I  trust  you  are — you  will  of  course 
feel  a  sort  of  pride  in  believing  that  the  best  view  is  on  the  Amer 
ican  side.  And  so  it  is  :  yet  to  look  at  the  United  States'  part 
of  the  cataract,  you  would  say  it  was  a  mere  mill-dam.  It  is 
thus  that  distance  deceives.  You  cannot  see  the  movement  of 
that  far-off  water,  or  hear  distinctly  the  horrid  sound  with  which 
it  plunges  from  its  cloud-kissing  elevation  to  the  depths  below. 
But  if  you  would  obtain  the  deepest  and  strongest  thoughts  of 
Niagara,  do  as  I  say.  Observe  the  semicircular  cataract  on  the 
Canada  side  from  the  esplanade  of  the  Pavilion,  but  do  not  go 
down  to  the  base  of  the  Fall.  Let  the  view  remain  upon  your 
mind  as  a  beautiful  picture  ;  keep  the  music  in  your  ear,  for  it 
is  a  stern  and  many-toned  music,  that  you  cannot  choose  but 
hear.  Order  the  coachman  to  transport  your  luggage  to  the  ferry 
below  the  Falls  —  some  mile  or  so.  There  embark :  you  will 
be  frightened,  doubtless,  as  you  gaze  to  the  south,  and  see  the 
awful  torrent  pouring  down  upon  you  ;  but  you  may  take  the 
word  of  the  ferry-man  that  for  some  dozen  or  twenty  years  he  has 
never  met  with  an  accident :  you  may  believe  him,  for  the  air  of 
truth  breathes  through  his  large  grim  whiskers.  You  will  see  the 
waves  curling  their  turbulent  tops,  and  dark  rocks  emerging  from 
their  milky  current  and  seething  foam,  within  a  yard  of  your 
prow— but  be  not  afraid.  You  are  soon  at  the  foot  of 

THE    AMERICAN    STAIR-CASE. 

And  here,  after  all,  kind  reader,  is  the  place  for  a  view.  Do  not 
look  about  you  much.  Be  content  with  the  thunder  in  your  ears, 
and  wait  until  some  practised  and  tasteful  observer,  kindly  acting 
as  your  cicerone,  bids  you  stop  just  at  that  point  on  the  stair-case 
where  the  plunging  river,  on  the  American  side,  dashes  down 
ward  in  its  propulsive  journey.  There,  by  thtf  onward  plunge 
of  the  cataract,  which  bounds  in  a  ridge  over  the  abyss,  descri 
bing  as  it  were  a  circular  fall,  the  view  oi  Goat-Island  is  com 
pletely  cut  off,  and  the  whole  sweep  of  the  Falls  —  Canadian, 
American,  and  all — is  seen  at  one?;  apparently  one  unbroken 
waste  of  stormy  and  tumultuous  Caters.  You  must  be  a  demi 
god,  if  you  can  stand  on  that  hallowed  ground,  shaking  with  the 
accents  of  a  GOD,  spanned  with  His  bow,  resounding  with  His 
strength,  and  laughing  in  His  smile,  without  emotions  of  inde 
scribable  wonder.  Thus,  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  a  spirit 
saturated  with  the  grandeur  of  the  scene,  OLLAPOD  pencilled  his 
hasty,  weak,  and  inexpressive  scrawl : 

HERE  .speaks  the  voice  of  GOD  !     Let  man  be  dumb, 
Nor,  with  his  vain  aspirings,  hither  come  ; 


164  OLLAPODIANA. 

That  voice  impels  these  hollow-sounding  floods, 
And  with  its  presence  shakes  the  distant  woods ; 
These  groaning  rocks  the  ALMIGHTY'S  finger  piled  ; 
For  ages  here  His  painted  bow  has  smiled  ; 
Mocking  the  changes  and  the  chance  of  time  — 
Eternal — beautiful  —  serene  —  sublime  ! 

FOR  the  rest;  as  touching  the  sound  of  Niagara;  our  wan 
derings  over  Goat  Island ;  the  fair  friends  we  met  perambulating 
•there;  with  divers  other  peregrinations;  the  journey  toward  the 
orient;  the  scenes  of  Lewiston,  Queenston,  Lockport,  Roch 
ester — that  lovely  and  most  hospitable  city;  shall  they  not  be 
presented  to  thee,  kind  reader,  in  the  next  subsections  of 

Thine,  heartily,  and  to  serve,          OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER    SIXTEEN. 

January,  1837. 

BELOVED  READER  :  We  parted  company  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase,  leading  from  the  foamy  current  of  Niagara  —  up  —  up, 
as  it  were  from  the  caverns  of  Pandemonium  to  Paradise — to 
'  the  American  side.'  Let  me  act  as  a  guide-book  to  your  eyes, 
while  we  proceed. 

Look  backward,  occasionally,  whenever  you  have  opportunity, 
through  the  apertures  of  your  pathway,  at  the  clouds  of  mist  that 
circle  into  rainbows  around  you,  and  at  the  milk-white  torrent 
which  rolls  and  murmurs  beneath.  Far  below  you,  '  moves 
one  that  gathers  luggage.'  You  shall  see  him  with  your  trunks 
and  carpet-bags,  climbing  the  dizzy  steppes  in  your  trail,  the 
omega  of  your  p^rty,  until  you  find  yourselves  in  the  land  of 
Jonathan. 

Apparently,  you  are  \n  a  forest.  A  few  cottages  are  skirting 
its  edge,  or  the  neighborhood  round  about ;  but  beyond,  all  seems 
ancient  and  primeval.  You  Almost  look  to  encounter  an  Indian. 
But  the  Great  Cataract  is  at  jour  side,  and  where  it  breaks  off 
into  the  cloudy  eternity  below,  which  now  you  cannot  see,  the 
green  verdure  slopes  to  the  very  e&ge  of  the  precipice,  marked 
with  the  shoe-prints  of  a  thousand  fet*.  What  fairy  shapes  of 
pretty  soles  are  there !  Of  some,  OLLAPOD  was  constrained  to 
say,  *  Surely,  these  delicate  marks  indicate  that  the  pedal  pres 
sure  of  those  who  made  them  would  scarcely  leave  its  impress 
upon  the  fringed  gentian,  or  the  upspringing  lily.' 

Slowly  and  contemplatively  we  lingered  about  this  haunted 


OLLAPODIANA.  165 

and  hollow-sounding  region.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  the  earth 
beneath,  to  its  centre,  and  the  heavens  above,  even  to  the  abyss 
of  the  empyrean,  were  shaking  and  vocal  with  « the  sound  of 
many  waters.'  There  is  no  escaping  from  the  voice  of  Niagara. 
Go  where  you  will ;  wander  for  miles  and  miles  from  its  green 
and  changeful  vortex  ;  yet  your  ear  drinks  in  its  deep  and  solemn 
melody.  For  me,  in  one  hour  during  the  many  I  passed  in  its 
hearing,  I  deserted  all  my  companions,  and  roamed  for  a  league 
into  the  melancholy  shades.  Was  I  beyond  the  warning  that 
Niagara  was  nigh  ?  Not  so.  On  every  gale  came  that  vast  and 
solemn  concert  of  water-sounds  ;  the  humming  middle-gush,  the 
high-measured  roll  and  gurgle,  the  awful  under-tone !  They 
seemed  to  Jill  all  the  air.  It  is  not  like  thunder ;  not  like  the 
murmurs  of  the  coming  whirlwind,  nor  the  troubled  groan  of  a 
volcano.  It  pervades  the  landscape  round ;  the  leaves  tremble 
at  its  breath  ;  the  bird  shrieks,  as  if  in  fear,  and  springing  from 
the  branch  that  overlooks  the  stream,  soars  through  rainbows  and 
bright  clouds  beyond  the  scene.  The  cataract  utters  its  horrid 
whereabout  on  every  breeze.  You  listen  to  its  murmurs,  until 
the  heart  is  intoxicated  with  their  sublimity,  and  the  eye  moist 
with  emotion.  Now  they  sound  like  the  crackling  flames,  spread 
ing  for  leagues  over  mountain  woodlands  ;  then  like  doleful  bells, 
heard  at  intervals  in  the  pauses  of  a  funeral ;  then,  like 

*  The  rolling  of  triumphant  wheels,  the  harpings  in  the  hall, 
The  far-off  shouts  of  multitudes  are  in  their  rise  and  fall.* 

Alternately  stormy  and  plaintive,  deep  and  faint,  as  the  wings  of 
the  wind  aspire  or  are  depressed,  they  create  a  mingled  and 
many-toned  diapason,  which,  to  be  felt,  must  be  heard  ;  and  to 
be  heard,  must  be  remembered  for  ever.  They  are  like  the 
blast  of  the  tempest,  as  described  in  c  The  Ailntient  Marinere,' 
when 

'  his  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge, 

As  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud, 

While  the  moon  was  at  its  edge  : 
When  the  roaring  wind  did  roar  far  off, 

It  did  not  come  anear  ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere.' 

Do  NOT,  good  reader,  go  bounding  rapidly  through  and  among 
the  scenery  on  the  American  side  of  Niagara,  with  a  fleet  foot 
step  and  an  unobservant  eye,  but  use  all  gently.  Thus  did  we. 
Every  tree  you  meet,  almost,  contains  the  initials  of  the  thousands 
who  have  come  and  gone  from  that  overpowering  and  magnifi 
cent  wonder.  We  pushed  onward,  without  care  or  sorrow,  filled 


166  OLLAPODIANA. 

and  intoxicated  with  admiration,  and  wist  not,  as  it  were,  whither 
we  went. 

Crossing  a  fearful  bridge,  we  reached  Goat-Island ;  but 
OLLAPOD,  lagging  behind  his  less  imaginative  companions,  stood 
in  the  middle  of  that  frail  causeway,  and  listened  and  gazed  upon 
the  mad  waves  of  a  river,  as  they  dashed  and  growled  beneath ; 
seeming  himself,  meanwhile,  to  be  rushing  '  up  stream,'  as  if 
astride  of  a  comet.  Yet  this  river,  as  viewed  from  the  Canada 
side,  appears  like  a  silver  ribbon,  flaunting  in  bright  relief  against 
a  back-ground  of  sable  rock,  and  forms  but  the  merest  tithe  of 
the  American  Fall.  

How  many  sublime  and  pleasant  recollections  fill  my  mind, 
as  I  call  up,  in  the  stillness  of  this  autumnal  and  contemplative 
evening,  that  magnificent  scene  !  In  the  quiet  of  my  domestic 
retirement,  the  last  leaves  of  summer  quivering  at  my  window, 
with  low  and  melancholy  whispers;  pale  statues  (thou,  Bard  of 
Eden,  and  thou,  Swan  of  Avon,  and  ye,  Muses  of  Greece, 
whose  presence  still  haunts,  or  seems  to  haunt,  the  olive  woods, 
by  streams  of  old  renown  !)  gleam,  and  send  their  shadows  along 
the  wall ;  but  I  go  back,  on  the  wings  of  memory,  to  those  cloud 
less  and  soul-fraught  hours^  until  the  voice  of  Niagara  is  in  my 
ear,  and  the  bounding  impulse  of  its  tide  seems  gathering  in  my 
apartment.  I  am  lost  in  recollection : 

*  WHEN  eve  is  purpling  cliff  and  cave, 

Thoughts  of  the  heart !  how  soft  ye  flow  ! 
Not  softer,  on  the  western  wave 

The  golden  lines  of  sunset  glow. 
Then  all  by  chance  or  fate  removed, 

Like  spirits,  crowd  upon  the  eye ; 
The  few  we  liked — the  one  we  loved, 

And  all  the  heart  is  memory  !' 

THAT  was  a  beautiful  and  placid  face,  which  we  encountered 
on  our  way  to  the  island  ;  yea,  and  a  sweetly-moulded  form.  I 
remember  it  well ;  and  so  do  all  who  have  sojourned,  transiently 
or  long,  among  the  elysian  bowers  of  New-Haven.  Charming 
DE  F !  The  queen  of  Commencements,  and  Junior  Ex 
hibitions  !  Cynosure  of  sophomore  eyes,  with  an  atmosphere 
about  thee  of  music  and  the  frankincense  of  youth  !  Idol  of  un 
hewn  and  wondering  freshmen,  who  gaze  at  thee  as  they  would 
at  a  distant  star,  moving  in  brightness  through  -the  dark  blue 
depths  of  Heaven !  Who,  wedded  and  blessed,  or  single  and 
hipped,  but  would  look  upon  thee  as  a  sumptuous  and  beauteous 
picture?  No  one,  be  it  confidently  averred,  in  whose  mind  a 


OLLAPODIANA.  167 

taste  for  grace  and  loveliness  were  not  *  clean  gone  for  ever.' 
Thou  art  associated  in  my  memory  with  the  sun-bows  and  green 
woods  and  waters  of  Niagara ;  and  art  destined  there  to  last, 

'  Unto  thylke  day  i'  the  which  I  shall  crepe 
Into  my  sepulchre.' 


ONE  thing  will  impress  you,  as  you  wander  about  Goat-Island. 
After  you  have  stood  upon  the  high  rocky  tower,  (connected  by 
a  quivering  plank,  as  it  were,  with  the  awful  edge  of  the  preci 
pice,)  and  looked  for  miles  around  you,  upon  a  waste  of  stormy 
waters,  plunge  at -once  into  the  quiet  and  wooded  paths  of  the 
island.  Travel  on  —  on  —  on.  Now,  you  may  fancy  that  you 
are  alone,  and  Niagara  out  of  hearing.  Is  it  so  ?  Pause  a  mo 
ment.  There  comes  through  the  thick  leaves  and  branches 
around  you,  though  you  are  far  from  the  Falls,  a  many-toned 
and  hollow  voice,  which  makes  every  leaf  to  tremble.  The 
light  stems  thrill  to  the  rushing  breath  of  the  cataract.  Yet  it  is 
not  sudden,  like  the  sound  of  a  cannon,  or  the  pealing  of  the 
thunder  :  it  is  constant,  yet  changeful ;  heavy  and  solemn  ;  yet 
at  times,  fairy  and  musical :  but  it  fills  all  the  air.  There  is  no 
pause,  no  cessation,  no  stay.  The  roar  is  eternal.  It  is  the  ut 
terance  of  the  GOD  who  lifted  that»horrid  ledge  into  heaven,  and 
stretched  that  awful  chasm  for  leagues  toward  the  frozen  pole. 

FAIL  not,  tourist,  to  visit  the  Cave  of  the  Winds,  and  to  go 
southwardly  from  the  BIDDLE  stair-case,  under  the  American 
ledge.  Mind  not  the  tempest,  which  will  sweep  over  you  occa 
sionally  from  the  distant  cataract,  in  a  cloud  of  spray  on  the 
wings  of  the  gale.  There  is  inspiration  in  the  heart,  as  you  in 
hale  the  awful  hymn-notes  of  the  torrent,  and  the  freshness  of 
that  watery  air.  It  is  like  breathing  upon  a  high  mountain  in 
winter,  above  a  wide  plain,  where  a  wider  stretch  of  white  fades 
at  last,  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  into  a  universal  blue.  Look 
up,  ever  and  anon.  How  fearfully  those  heavy  pines  look  over 
the  ledges,  at  the  height  of  many  a  hundred  feet !  There  the 
blue  sky  looks  down  upon  you,  and  the  fleecy  cloud — child  of 
the  waters  and  the  morning — unfolds  its  skirts  of  fleecy  gold  ! 
Beautiful,  awful,  impressive  scene  ! 


THEY  told  us  a  good  story  of  an  Irishman  and  Scotchman, 
from  Canada,  who  came  on  the  American  side  last  winter,  to 
settle  an  ancient  grudge  by  fisticuffs.  '  They  fought  like  brave 
men,  long  and  well ;'  long  hung  the  contest  doubtful ;  and  the 
by-standers  wist  not  which  should  prevail ;  whether  or  shamrock 


168  OLLAPODIANA. 

or  thistle.  At  last  the  antagonists  fell  to  the  ground  ;  they  rolled 
to  the  edge  of  the  river ;  one,  minus  his  linsey-woolsey  coat-tail, 
clung  to  some  shrubbery  on  the  precipitous  bank  ;  the  other  fell 
to  the  distance  of  sixty  feet,  saving  his  life  by  striking  among 
the  thick  boughs  of  a  parasitical  tree  growing  out  of  the  rock,  and 
festooned  with  thick  vines,  the  seed  of  which  some  wandering 
breeze  had  wafted  to  a  fissure  in  the  rock,  where  it  had*  been 
nourished  by  the  presence  of  leaf-dust  and  spray,  until  it  had 
flourished  into  strong  and  vigorous  fertility.  The  discomfited 
warrior  was  drawn  up  by  a  rope,  let  down  for  his  aid,  and  hooked 
to  his  wounded  inexpressibles,  having  fallen  only  a  small  part 
of  the  distance  to  the  river's  bed. 

A  DAY  or  two  (employed  in  good  dinners  at  the  Cataract 
House,  a  personal  inspection  and  liberal  purchases  of  Indian 
gimcrackeries  on  the  Island,  leave-takings  with  friends,  appoint 
ments  for  Saratoga,  Rockaway,  Trenton,  or  Newport)  can  be 
passed  richly  at  Niagara.  If  you  have  an  ounce  of  poetry 
about  you,  reader,  remain  there  until  you  can  'go  the  whole  cir 
cuit  on  every  side,  and  in  every  quarter — ALONE.  Go  out,  free 
from  all  human  presence,  and  hold  communion  with  your  GOD. 
So  shall  you  bring  away  with  you  cherished  and  kindling  thoughts, 
never  to  die.  

WE  bowled  briskly  away  from  the  Cataract  Hotel,  one  rainy 
afternoon;  the  mud  was  up  to  the  axle  of  our  extra;  and  as  we 
wheeled  around  an  opening  through  the  thick  shrubbery,  on  our 
way  to  Lewiston,  not  far  from  the  The  Devil's  Hole,  a  polite 
name  given  to  a  horrid  chasm  in  the  rocky  wall  which  bounds 
Niagara  on  either  side,  from  Queenston  to  the  Pavilion,  I  caught 
my  parting  view  of  The  Wonder.  Down  rolled  that  heavy 
stretch  of  wide  and  foaming  waters,  the  spray  rising  in  clouds 
from  its  base ;  the  wreathing  vapors  making  themselves  wings  for 
the  wind,  and  ready  to  sail  away,  like  airy  messengers,  perhaps 
to  be  steeped  in  sunlight  over  Lake  Erie,  so  that  they  which  but 
a  little  while  before  were  mounting  with  thunder  in  their  bosoms, 
could  soar  away  and  be  at  rest. 

As  you  journey  to  the  North,  Dan  Tourist,  forget  not  to  pause 
on  the  brow  of  that  long  hill  which  overlooketh  the  old  town  of 
Queenston,  in  Canada,  the  monument  of  BROCK,  and  eke  the 
town  of  Lewiston  on  the  republican  side.  As  we  neared  this 
spot,  the  sun  broke  out  from  his  hiding  place,  and  diffused  over 
the  landscape,  for  many,  many  leagues,  a  sweet  and  melancholy 


OLLAPODIANA. 

smile.  Magnificent  sight !  The  monument,  arose  like  a  shaft 
of  ebony  against  a  sky  of  the  richest  crimson.  Old  Niagara 
went  meandering  onward  to  Ontario,  like  a  vast  serpent  of  gold, 
creeping  through  a  landscape  of  surpassing  loveliness.  The 
Mother  and  the  Daughter  of  two  countries  seemed  brought  to 
gether  in  loving  propinquity ;  and  the  hills  afar,  the  vales  be 
tween,  'the  rain  drops  glittering  on  the  trees  around,'  and  the 
trembling  leaves,  gave  melody  to  the  breeze  and  beauty  to  the 
eye.  

BEFORE  we  supped,  I  opened  the  window  of  our  hostelrie  at 
Lewiston,  to  catch  the  last  sound  of  the  Falls.  On  the  fitful 
gusts,  and  swayed  to  full  or  gentle  modulations  by  the  creeping 
tides  of  air  that  swept  through  the  twilight,  came  '  the  voice  of 
many  waters.'  Harp  sublime  !  Anthem  unending  !  Organ  of 
the  ALMIGHTY  !  I  seem  to  hear  thee  still ! 


IF  you  visit  Niagara,  I  think  I  would  perform  the  journey  in 
October.  Oh,  when  the  trees  are  clothed  in  their  many-colored 
autumnal  robes ;  when  the  day-god  goes  to  his  rest  as  a  monarch 
goes  to  his  slumbers,  drawing  around  him  his  curtains  of  purple 
and  gold  ;  when  the  mellow  fruits  drop  richly  from  the  trees  in 
thine  orchard ;  when  the  honey-locust  leaf,  or  *  ash,  deep  crim 
soned,'  falls  to  the  ground ; 

*  When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  leaves  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill.' 

then  go  to  Niagara.  You  will  return  with  the  chastening  solem 
nity  of  the  season  upon  you ;  with  emblems  of  eternity  in  your 
mind ;  with  remembered  whispers  of  a  GOD  sounding  in  your 
ear,  and  with  thanks  to  HIM 

'Who  made  the  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains.' 


STOOD  at  the  door  of  the  Cataract  Hotel,  on  the  American 
side,  while  the  postilion  was  placing  their  '  travelling  dress'  upon 
his  cattle,  and  watched  a  handsome  squaw  trudge  through  the 
heavy  rain,  with  a  papoose,  or  young  baby,  at  her  back,  covered 
with  a  white  blanket,  and  suspended  by  a  wampum  belt  from  her 
forehead.  How  statelily  she  stepped  !  She  had  the  walk  of  an 
empress,  as  she  bounded  away  into  the  woods.  Poor  soul ! 
Probably  on  her  way  to  her  lonely  wigwam,  to  lament  in  the 
autumn,  when  the  sun  goes  down  in  an  ocean  of  rainbow-colored 


170  OLLAPODIANA. 

foliage,  and  the  wilderness  echoes  to  the  moan  of  the  dying  year, 
the  departing  glories  of  her  race, 

'  Like  thee,  thou  sun,  to  die.' 

EXCEEDINGLY  amused  at  the  air  and  manner  of  a  decided 
*  loafer,'  a  sentimentalist  withal,  and  a  toper,  who  had  come  out  of 
his  way  from  Buffalo  to  see  the  Falls.  '  Landlord  !'  said  he,  to 
the  Boniface  of  the  Cataract,  (  and  you,  gentlemen,  who  stand  on 
this  porch,  witnessing  this  pitiless  rain,  you  see  before  you  one 
who  has  a  tempest  of  sorrows  a-beatin'  upon  his  head  continually. 
Wanst  I  was  wo'th  twenty  thousand  dollars,  and  I  driv  the  sad 
dling  profession.  Circumstances  alters  cases ;  now  I  wish  for  to 
solicit  charity.  Some  of  you  seems  benevolent,  and  I  do  be 
lieve  I  a'm  not  destined  to  rank  myself  among  those  who  could 
travel  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  say  all  is  barren.  No,  I  scorn 
to  brag ;  but  I  am  intelligent  beyond  my  years,  and  my  educa 
tion  has  been  complete.  I  have  read  Wolney's  Ruins,  Mar 
shall's  Life  of  Washington,  and  Pope's  Easy  on  Man,  and  most 
of  the  literature  of  the  day,  as  contained  in  the  small  newspapers. 
But  the  way  I'm  situated  at  present,  is  scandalous.  The  fact  is, 
my  heart  is  broke,  and  I'm  just  Ishmaelizing  about  the  globe, 
with  a  sombre  brow,  and  a  bosom  laden  with  wo.  Who  will 
help  me  —  speak  singly,  gentlemen  —  who  will  'ease  my  griefs, 
and  drive  my  cares  away  ?'  as  Isaac  Watts  says,  in  one  of  his 
devotional  poems.' 

No  answer  was  returned.  A  general  laugh  arose.  The  pride 
of  the  mendicant  was  excited :  rage  got  the  better  of  his  hu 
mility  ;  and  shaking  his  fist  in  the  face  of  the  by-standers,  he 
roared  out : 

1  You're  all  a  pack  of  poor,  or'nary  common  people.  You 
insult  honest  poverty ;  but  I  do  not  '  hang  my  head  for  a'  that,' 
as  Burns  says.  I  will  chastise  any  man  here,  for  two  three-cent 
drinks  of  MonagoUale  whiskey ;  yes,  though  I  have  but  lately 
escaped  shipwreck,  coming  from  Michigan  to  Buffalo,  and  am 
weak  from  loss  of  strength  ;  yet  I  will  whip  the  best  of  you.  Let 
any  on  ye  come  over  to  the  Black  Rock  Rail-road  Dee-pott,  and 
I'll  lick  him  like  a  d—n!' 

'  Never  mind  that,'  said  one  ;  '  tell  us  about  the  shipwreck.' 

1  Ah!'  he  continued,  'that  was  a  scene!  Twenty  miles  out 
at  sea,  on  the  lake  ;  the  storm  bustin'  upon  the  deck ;  the  waves, 
like  mad  tailors,  making  breeches  over  it  continually  ;  the  light 
nings  a  bustin'  overhead,  and  hissing  in  the  water;  the  clouds 
meeting  the  earth;  the  land  just  over  the  lee-bow  ;  every  mast 
in  splinters ;  every  sail  in  rags  ;  women  a-screechin' ;  farmers' 


OLLAPODIANA.  .   171 

wives  emigratin'  to  the  west  calling  for  their  husbands ;  and  hell 
yawnin'  all  around  !  A  good  many  was  dreadfully  sea-sick ;  and 
one  man,  after  casting  forth  everything  beside,  with  a  violent 
retch,  threw  up  his  boots.  Oh,  gentlemen,  it  was  awful !  At 
length  came  the  last  and  destructives!  billow.  It  struck  the  ship 
on  the  left  side,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  poop,  and  all  at 
wanst  I  felt  something  under  us  breakin'  away.  The  vessel  was 
parting  !  One  half  the  crew  was  drowned  ;  passengers  was  pray 
ing,  and  commending  themselves  to  heaven.  I  alone,  escaped 
the  watery  doom.' 

*  And  how  did  you  manage  to  redeem  yourself  from  destruc 
tion  ?'  was  the  general  inquiry. 

'  Why,  gentlemen,  the  fact  is,  I  seen  how  things  was  a-goin', 
and  I  took  my  hat  and  went  ashore  /' 

The  last  I  saw  of  this  Munchausen,  was  as  our  coach  wheeled 
away.  He  had  achieved  a  *  drink,'  and  was  perambulating 
through  the  mud,  lightened,  momentarily,  of  his  sorrows. 

As  you  journey  to  the  North,  from  Niagara  to  Lewiston,  you 
catch,  ever  and  anon,  through  the  leafy  screen  of  the  trees,  dis 
tant  views  of  the  Great  Cataract.  In  the  pauses  of  your  carriage 
wheels,  come  the  thunder  of  the  torrent  and  the  dimness  of , the 
spray.  On  your  left,  there  is  '  a  great  gulf  fixed?  to  which  the 
Gulf  of  Hades  might  be  imagined  to  have  resemblance.  Now 
and  then,  crowned  with  glittering  rainbows,  you  see  the  Falls,  like 
the  '  great  white  sheet  let  down  from  Heaven,'  as  beheld  of  old 
in  the  portable  larder  that  met  the  apostle's  startled  vision.  Then 
a  thickening  cloud  of  spray,  filled  with  '  thunderings  and  voices,' 
hides  it  from  your  view.  Mile  after  mile,  you  continue  your 
tour,  the  great  Gulf  still  at  your  side,  the  complaining  river  roll 
ing  apparently  leagues  beneath  you  ;  horrid  chasms  and  frowning 
precipices,  around  whose  bases  the  foaming  waves  eddy  and 
howl ;  until,  by  and  by,  you  ascend  that  incomparable  hill  which 
oaprlooks  the  scenes  of  Lewiston  and  Queenston.  The  delight 
ed  eye  beholds  the  sinking  current  grow  calmer  and  calmer  ;  the 
blue  vistas  of  Canadian  woods  and  plains  stretch  themselves  in 
blending  colors  and  undulations  to  the  far  and  fairy  radius  of  the 
horizon  ;  and  as  the  river  rolls  onward  to  the  Ontario,  like  a  huge 
serpent  of  gold  winding  through  the  landscape  ;  as  the  tall  shaft 
of  BROCK'S  monument  paints  its  delicate  outline  against  the  even 
ing  sky,  and  the  fainter  sound  of  the  distant  cataract  is  taken  on 
the  freshening  wind,  among  the  far-off  cedars,  waving  against  a 
gush  of  farewell  crimson  in  the  west ;  the  scene  is  inspiration, 
and  the  place  becomes  religion. 


172  OLLAPODIANA. 

WHILE  our  supper  was  in  preparation  at  Lewiston,  I  opened 
the  window  which  looked  toward  the  South,  in  the  direction 
whence  we  had  come.  Haply,  thought  I,  the  cataract  may  yet 
send  its  farewell  voice  to  my  ear.  I  listened  attentively,  auribus 
er&ctis,  and  solemnly  on  the  swelling  gusts  and  creeping  murmurs 
of  the  evening,  as  they  rose  and  fell,  swayed  by  the  sweeping  of 
the  tides  of  air,  came  the  majestic  hum  and  air-tremble  of  the 
Falls  !*  How  impressive  was  that  sound  !  Throned  afar  in  the 
forest ;  sceptred  with  its  gorgeous  coronet  of  lunar  rainbows ;  its 
regal  impulse  rushing  through  the  darkness  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind  ;  Niagara  lifted  to  heaven  its  vocal  and  eternal  anthem !  How 
many  generations,  thought  I,  shall  come  and  go  ;  how  many 
loving  hearts  go  back  to  dust ;  how  many  lips  be  dumb  in  death, 

and  their  soft  breath  with  pain 

Be  yielded  to  the  elements  again, 

before  Niagara  shall  be  tuneless,  or  its  stormy  tones  be  muffled ! 
Power  more  than  kingly  !  Voice,  louder  and  steadier  than  the 
clangor  of  battle,  or  the  peal  of  the  ephemeral  earthquake,  ingulf 
ing  plains  and  cities  !  In  the  language  of  the  bard,  '  Thy  days 
are  everlasting  !'  Thou  earnest  from  the  palm  of  HIM  who  hath 
measured  the  earth,  and  who  sees  the  pestilence  stain  the  noon 
day  at  his  bidding  !  Who  that  breathes,  will  ever  behold  the 
consummation  of  thy  destiny  ?  None  !  Autumn  after  autumn, 
with  its  gold-dropping  orchards,  its  painted  woodlands  and  hollow 
sighs  shall  come  and  go  ;  spring  will  prank  the  earth  with  vio 
lets  and  verdure  ;  summer  shall  glow,  and  deadly  winter  pale  the 
earth  ;  but  over  all  thou  will  triumph,  until  this  sphere  shall 
heave  at  the  voice  of  the  ALMIGHTY,  and  the  trump  of  the  Arch 
angel  ! 

.  OF  the  road  from  Lewiston  to  Lockport,  and  of  that  famous 
country  town,  what  shall  I  say  ?  I  would  say  nothing — but  I 
must  say  something.  I  feel  in  the  predicament  wherein  is  placed 
DENNIS  BULGRUDDERY,  in  the  play,  with  respect  of  his  nb. 
1 1  can  hear  nothing  bad  of  her,'  he  says  to  a  guest  at  the  '  Red 
Cow,'  which  hotel  he  kept ;  '  you  can  say  nothing  good  of  her,, 
without  telling  a  d — d  lie;  and  in  coorse,  the  less  you  say,  the 
better.'  Thus  I  am  situated  and  circumstanced,  as  touching  the 
road  and  last  place  herein  before  mentioned. 

With  a  postillion  (of  the  just-adopted  Telegraph)  dressed  in  a 
flaming  red  coat,  for  which  he  had  exchanged  his  own  for  a  '  con 
sideration,'  with  a  deserting  private  in  the  Canadian  army,  we 

*  THERE  is  a  repetition  of  certain  impressions  here,  owing  to  a  misdirection  on  the  original 
MS.    I  have  thought  it  best,  however,  to  retain  the  original  form.  EDITOR. 


OLLAPODIANA.  173 

pushed  slowly  on  from  Lewiston  to  Lockport.  Mud,  without 
end  or  bottom,  alluvial  pudding,  thickened  and  gurgled  on  every 
.side.  Postillion  was  not  to  be  hurried.  No ;  '  he  was  a  free 
Amerikin  driver,  be  Gosh,'  was  his  reply  to  one  or  two  Birming 
ham  or  Sheffield  agents,  hastening  homeward  in  the  next  packet 
from  New  York ;  '  and  he  guessed  that  anybody  that  went  for  to 
stir  him  up  in  the  lively  line,  would  get  crucified  and  come  over, 
almighty  slick.'  And  he  kept  his  word.  Through  pools,  and 
over  particularly  stony  and  dangerous  spots,  he  wended  swift  as 
Phaeton  with  his  aerial  team ;  but  where  the  thoroughfare  was 
good,  a  snail  would  have  distanced  his  lagging  move. 

LOCKPORT  is  famous  for  its  deep  cut  in  the  canal.  Repre 
sentations  of  this  great  achievement  I  had  seen  in  print,  and  had 
supposed  that  it  was  a  marvel  of  the  first  water.  It  came  to  pass, 
therefore,  when  we  saw  the  sole  steeple  of  the  village  rising  over 
a  level  country  in  the  east,  that  we  looked  earnestly  for  the  Deep 
Cut.  We  continued  to  gaze  until  we  had  reached  the  hotel, 
when  we  sallied  forth  in  the  rain,  with  a  friend  or  two,  in  rabid 
quest  of  the  wonder.  The  first  view  we  obtained  was  from  the 
village  bridge.  Never  was  there  a  more  complete  disappointment. 
The  line  of  the  canal,  to  the  west,  appears  very  like  its  usual  long 
and  snake-like  length  ;  and  I  put  it  to  the  reader,  if  one  very  of 
ten  looks  upon  a  more  common  thing  than  a  canal,  after  you  have 
travelled  across,  and  alongside,  and  around  it,  for  some  two  or 
three  hundred  miles  ?  This,  then,  was  the  Deep  Cut !  Oh, 
minimum  of  marvels  !  A  look  or  two  was  suffegeance*  It  was 
a  rainy  day  ;  the  village  grocers  were  taking  in  their  cod-fish  and 
fly-bespotted  macaroni ;  every  thing  was  gloomy  and  dismal : 
consequently  it  was  resolved  nem.  con.,  to  give  the  Deep  Cut  a 
dead  cut,  which  was  suddenly  performed. 

In  the  lower  town,  our  vehicular  machinery  stuck  fast  in  the 
mud.  This  afforded  time  for  a  maiden  lady,  of  whom  I  shall 
speak  anon,  to  sally  forth  from  an  indifferent-looking  domicil, 
near  the  upper  quartier,  and  take  her  seat.  At  last  the  embed 
ded  wheels  asserted  their  freedom,  and  went  gushing  along  at  the 
rate  of  a  mile  an  hour,  precisely  like  the  pawing  wheels  of  a 
steamboat  in  a  heavy  sea  on  Long  Island  Sound. 

STOPPED  a  few  minutes  to  say  how-d'ye-do  to  a  clever  rela 
tion.  Found  ample  time  for  my  purpose,  while  the  coach  was 
lumbering  by.  Looked  out  from  his  handsome  law-office  upon 
a  wide  domain  of  mud,  and  meadows  filled  with  stumps,  and 


174  OLLAPODIANA. 

ancient  logs,  reeking  with  the  rain.  Everything  looked  remorse 
lessly  unprepossessing.  The  clay  in  the  road  was  of  a  yellowish 
cream  color,  some  uniform  fifteen  inches  deep,  beside.  Anathe 
matized  the  town  to  my  sometime  companion,  averring  solemnly 
unto  him,  that  if  Lockport  were  built  of  ducats,  and  the  abdomen 
of  every  little  hill  in  its  neighborhood  pregnant  with  precious 
stones  and  jewels,  I  would  not  there  reside.  I  still  hold  my 
mind ;  but  mayhap  a  fair  day,  a  robe  of  sunshine  over  that  re 
gion,  and  other  appliances  and  pleasaunces  to  boot,  would  have 
altered  my  opinions.  But  what  I  've  writ,  I  've  writ ;  perchance 
unjustly  to  the  place.  But  '  situated,  and  I  might  add,  circum 
stanced  as  I  was,'  and  with  my  present  memories,  I  must  say 
*  them's  my  sentiments.'  Fair  words  I  blow  to  the  winds,  and 
candor  reigns  supreme.  Yet  I  have  heard  those  whose  judgment 
is  law  with  me  on  the  subject  of  scenery,  declare  that  Lockport 
is  possessed  of  delightful  haunts  ;  that  the  neighborhood  around 
is  like  a  paradise,  in  summer.  I  will  believe  them  ;  and  I  charge 
the  elements  with  the  verdict  of  my  first  impressions. 

WE  soonjfpund  that  the  maiden  lady  who  entered  at  Lockport 
was  a  person  of  great  scholastic  acquirements,  and  of  a  very  com 
municative  turn  of  mind.  A  few  miles  from  that  town,  (which 
whoso  entereth,  if  in  our  way  of  thought,  will  reach  without  emo 
tion  and  leave  without  regret,)  we  entered,  out  of  a  lonely  and 
muddy  turnpike,  much  the  same  as  that  at  Lockport,  upon  that 
delectable  road,  denominated  Ridge.  It  is  good  in  rain  or  shine. 
Some  inquiries  being  made,  whether  we  were  not  on  better 
ground,  the  maiden  oped  her  vocal  orifice,  and  observed  :  'A'yes  ; 
that  were  the  Ridge-d  Road  which  we  have  stricken,  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  o'er  which  the  driver  have  just  riz  !' 

Shortly  after  this,  she  abdicated,  and  was  deposited  at  the 
house  of  a  friend  by  the  way-side. 


WHAT  shall  I  say  of  Rochester,  one  of  the  Queens  of  the 
West  ?  The  approach  to  it  is  through  a  delicious  country,  that 
will  yet  be  cultured  by  the  hand  of  taste  into  a  very  Eden.  What 
fair  embowered  towns,  with  their  white  steeples,  occur  at  inter 
vals  on  every  side !  What  a  sweet  and  rosy  generation  is  rising 
around  !  We  saw  them,  as  it  were,  by  legions  ;  fine  healthy  re 
sponsibilities,  courtesying  or  bowing  to  the  traveller,  their  shining 
faces  illumined  with  intelligence,  made  brighter  at  the  school 
from  which  they  went  and.  came. 

The  entrance  to  Rochester,  from  the  West,  is  impressive  by 
contrast ;  and  when  you  are  once  rattling  over  its  pavements,  and 


OLLAPODIANA.  175 

through  its  long  streets,  you  fancy  yourself  in  New  York,  or  eke 
in  Philadelphia.  The  suburbs  are  beautiful.  I  envied  so  deep 
ly  the  lot  of  some  certain  friends  who  escorted  us  along  the  banks 
of  the  fair  Genesee,  and  showed  us  the  Falls  of  that  charming 
river,  that  their  residences  still  rise  to  my  eye  as  the  very  acme 
of  rural  establishments.  From  the  roof  of  one,  (which  must  be  a 
palace  anon,)  I  looked  down  upon  flowery  walks,  the  sparkling  cat 
aract,  the  vast  pine  forests  to  the  north  ;  the  blue  Ontario  beyond  ; 
the  city,  with  its  turrets,  some  of  which  are  like  those  which  peer 
above  an  old  feudal  town  in  Europe;  upon  rail-cars  rattling  to  and 
fro,  while  the  horns  of  canal-men  came  musically  upon  the  breeze  ; 
upon  the  shady  dwellings  of  good  old  friends  in  the  suburbs  ;  and 
as  I  looked,  I  said,  '  This  shall  be  glorified  by  Ollapod? 

IN  a  survey  of  the  environs  of  Rochester,  there  is  enough  to 
kindle  the  dullest  imagination.  Prophecy  itself  will  be  distanced 
in  its  predictions  by  the  swift-coming  future.  To-day,  you 
may  wander  over  a  flowery  meadow,  or  through  the  tangled 
thickets  of  a  forest,  scarcely  as  yet  redeemed  from  the  darkness 
of  the  past ;  to-morrow,  the  new  street  springs  into,  being ;  the 
bustle  of  trade  fills  the  late  quiet  atmosphere  ;  the  flouring  mill 
sends  its  busy  wheels  round  and  round  ;  the  clink*  of  the  black 
smith's  hammer,  the  hum  of  the  cotton-gin,  the  saw  of  the  car 
penter  :  all  the  sounds  and  sights  of  city  life,  greet  your  ear  and 
your  vision.  As  I  journeyed  with  attentive  friends  in  the  suburbs, 
I  pointed  out  to  them  places  where  country  seats  could  be  erect 
ed,  in  the  most  calm  and  poetical  retreats.  Alas  !  I  found  too- 
soon,  that  these  sweet  recesses  were  already  marked  out  in  vil 
lage  lots,  and  that  within  *  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,' 
they  would  be  converted  into  paved  thoroughfares,  and  manufac 
turing  or  commercial  blocks ! 

One  sees  enough  in  these  embryo  cities  of  the  West,  to  dis 
suade  him  from  anything  like  prophecy.  The  barren  place, 
touched  by  the  wand  of  enterprise,  springs  at  once  into  newness 
of  life  :  a  community,  famed  for  pure  morality,  and  the  honest 
but  unbending  and  resolute  energies  of  its  members,  as  in  the 
case  of  Rochester,  goes  on  from  strength  to  strength,  until  its 
friends  become  surprised  with  unexpected  triumphs,  the  traveller 
amazed  at  the  increase  of  population,  and  the  patriot  charmed 
with  the  prospect  of  days  to  come.  For  me,  there  is  something 
•of  sadness  in  this  stirring  and  changeful  scene.  By  and  by,  the 
music  of  the  pine  will  be  lost  to  the  gale ;  the  cataract  will  min 
ister  to  the  stomachs  of  a  voracious  public ;  and  the  wave  that 
laughed  and  tumbled  picturesquely  in  the  sunshine,  will  be  se- 


176  OLLAPODIANA. 

duced  into  the  mill-race,  or  made  to  minister  to  the  dollar-and- 
cent  gyrations  of  the  spinning  jenny  !  Oh,  dreadful  profanation ! 
But  few  will  lament  the  loss  of  the  forest  or  the  torrent,  when 
the  *  almighty  dollar'  can  be  made,  by  their  subserviency  or  their 
removal,  to  propagate  and  fructify ! 

WELL — perhaps  it  is  best.  You  can  not  satisfy  one  gastro 
nomic  craving  with  a  green  tree  or  a  golden  sunset ;  and  a  water 
fall  butters  no  parsnips.  Your  turnip  will  not  come  from  a  cloud, 
nor  will  your  requisite  potato  drop  from  a  rainbow.  Neither  do 
beef-steaks  come  from  the  moon.  Wherefore,  while  there  are 
abdominal  cavities  to  be  refreshed,  for  the  benefit  of  frail  human 
ity  ;  while  rosy  lips  are  but  the  glowing  gateways  of  pork,  and 
beans,  and  cabbage ;  while  these  exist,  with  their  diurnal  wants 
and  requirements,  it  will  be  quite  useless  to  gainsay  their  de 
mands,  or  to  sentimentalize  upon  their  unpoetical  aspects. 

Wherefore,  I  pray  and  beseech  of  you,  worthy  reader,  not  to 
expect  that  I  shall,  on  every  occasion,  burst  forth,  like  a  steamer 
at  the  highest  heat,  into  the  misty  utterance  of  poetry  and  of 
romance.  Let  us  congratulate  each  other  upon  our  country.  It 
is  a  glorious  one  —  do  n't  you  think  so  ?  Are  you  an  American  ? 
Give  us  your  hand !  You  like  the  stars,  the  eagle,  and  the 
stripes  —  do  you  not  ?  Give  us  another  grip  !  We  shall  shortly 
meet  again.  Are  you  going?  Give  us  a  lock  of  your  hair. 
No?  Well — never  mind;  we  shall  meet  again.  Till  then, 
GOD  bless  you!  Ever  thine,  OLLAPOD. 


NUMBEB,    SEVENTEEN. 

March,  1837. 

*  GIVE  you  good  den,'  Reader.  We  have  been  deprived  of 
each  other's  companionship  for  several  weeks,  and  for  my  part  I 
am  becoming  lonesome  without  your  eye.  I  love  that  you  should 
scrutinize  my  sentences  ;  appreciate  a  good  thing,  if  I  happen  to 
acquit  myself  thereof ;  and  use  that  thrice  blessed  quality  of  for 
giveness  with  respect  to  a  bad  one.  It  pleases  me  to  think  that 
eyes  whose  mortal  glance  will  probably  never  meet  my  own,  may 
linger  for  a  moment  on  my  page,  and  that  some  thought  may  be 
conveyed,  through  those  starry  and  lustrous  media,  to  a  spirit  not 
displeased. 


OLLAPODIANA.  177 

SOME  of  my  contemporaries  have  supposed  that  the  estate  of 
a  Benedict  forbiddeth  the  resident  therein  to  disport  himself  as 
aforetime,  in  the  flowery  fields  of  fancy,  and  to  ambulate  at  ran 
dom  through  the  remembered  groves  of  the  academy,  or  the  rich 
gardens  of  imaginative  delight.  Verily  this  is  not  so.  To  the 
right-minded  man,  all  these  enjoyments  are  increased ;  the  ties 
that  bind  him  to  earth  are  strengthened  and  multiplied  :  he  anti 
cipates  new  affections  and  pleasures,  which  your  cold  individual, 
careering  solus  through  a  vale  of  tears,  with  no  one  to  share  with 
him  his  gouts  of  optical  salt  water,  wots  not  of.  As  a  beloved 
friend  once  said  unto  me  :  '  When  a  good  man  weds,  as  when 
he  dies,  angels  lead  his  spirit  into  a  quiet  land,  full  of  holiness 
and  peace ;  full  of  all  pleasant  sights,  and  l  beautiful  exceeding 
ly.'  One's  dreams  may  not  all  be  realized,  for  dreams  never  are  ; 
but  the  reality  will  differ  from,  and  be  a  thousand  fold  sweeter, 
than  any  dreams ;  those  shadowy  and  impalpable  though  gor 
geous  enitties,  that  flit  over  the  twilight  of  the  soul,  after  the  sun 
of  judgment  has  set.  I  never  hear  of  a  friend  having  accomplish 
ed  hymenization,  without  sending  after  him  a  world  of  good 
wishes  and  honest  prayers.  Amid  the  ambition,  the  selfishness, 
the  heartless  jostling  with  the  world,  which  every  son  of  Adam  is 
obliged  more  or  less  to  encounter,  it  is  no  common  blessing  to 
retire  therefrom  into  the  calm  recesses  of  domestic  existence,  and 
to  feel  around  your  temples  the  airs  that  are  wafted  from  fragrant 
wings  of  the  Spirit  of  Peace,  soft  as  the  breath  which  curled  the 
crystal  light 

*  of  Zion's  fountains, 

When  love,  and  hope,  and  joy  were  hers, 
And  beautiful  upon  her  mountains, 

The  feet  of  angel  messengers.' 

No  common  boon  is  it — we  speak  in  the  rich  sentence  of  a 
German  writer  —  to  enjoy  'a  look  into  a  pure  loving  eye;  a 
word  without  falseness,  from  a  bride  without  guile  ;  and  close  be 
side  you  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night,  a  soft-breathing  breast, 
in  which  there  is  nothing  but  paradise,  a  sermon,  and  a  midnight 
prayer !'  

OLD  JOHN  MILTON,  whose  pale  statue  looks  down  upon  me 
with  i  ful  gret  solempnite'  from  his  niche,  as  I  write,  enlarges 
with  great  gusto  upon  the  married  state,  and  his  verdict  has  been 
quoted  a  thousand  times ;  but  I  believe  that  respectable  gentle 
man,  and  tolerable  author,  found  at  last  that  the  state  matrimo 
nial,  as  far  as  himself  was  concerned,  was  not  so  delectable  as 
the  airy  tongue  of  fancy  had  syllabled  to  his  ear.  But  the  truth 

12 


178  OLLAPODIANA. 

is,  Milton  was  not  a  fair  judge.  He  was  no  more  fitted  to  pos 
sess  a  wife,  than  Richard  the  Third  was.  The  reason  is  obvious.  - 
He  was  engaged  in  the  construction  of  gorgeous  castles  in  the 
air :  spirits  that  '  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds'  were  his  familiars  ; 
and  the  battles  that  he  superintended  in  heaven,  and  the  hot  work 
that  he  had  of  it  in  the  other  place,  were  enough  to  keep  him  in 
a  perfect  and  constant  fever.  How  could  such  a  man  come  down 
to  the  bread-and-butter  concerns  of  every  day  life  ? — the  gentle 
hint  of  Mr.  Russell  the  tailor,  with  whom  he  boarded  in  Bunhill 
Fields,  that  it  was  about  time  to  elevate  the  pecuniary  quid  pro 
quo  for  victuals  and  drink  that  had  fulfilled  their  offices  in  his  in 
carnate  tabernacle  ?  How  could  he  go  to  the  green  grocer's  and 
get  a  cabbage  for  Mrs.  Milton,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  when  he 
was  busy  in  populating  Pandemonium  ?  or  see  about  procuring 
for  himself  a  new  pair  of  unwhisperables  from  his  host,  when  he 
was  engaged  in  arranging  a  throne  for  Apollyon,  and  drawing  the 
convention  of  his  peers  together,  to  make  speeches,  and  discuss 
matters  of  public  interest  ?  Indeed,  his  kingdom  was  not  of  this 
world  ;  his  mind  soared  away  from  the  dim  dust  and  smoke  of 
London,  up  to  the  gates  of  Paradise,  to  pastures  of  eternal  ver 
dure,  rivers  of  refreshing  waters,  and  thoroughfares  of  bullion, 
glistering  in  the  violet  and  golden  radiance  of  an  unfading  sky. 
Supposing  that  one  of  his  little  responsibilities  had  bawled  in  his 
ear  for  a  sugar-plum,  jjist  at  the  moment  when  he  had  got  Satan 
Into  one  of  his  heaviest  fights,  a  kind  of  gravy  running  from  his< 
wounds  ?  Would  he  not  have  exclaimed,  petulantly,  (in  the  iden 
tical  words  which  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  Arch-fiend,)  '  Oh 
hell!'  It  is  quite  likely;  and  perhaps  followed  up  the  ejacula 
tion  with  a  box  upon  the  ear  of  the  young  offender.  The  truth 
is,  he  was  always  in  nubibus,  or  else  above  them  ;  his  mental 
retina  expanding,  and  drinking  in  the  imperishable  and  glorious> 
prospects  of  the  upper  world.  He  had  not  the  serenity  of  Shaks- 
peare.  His  wing  was  not  so  strong ;  but  like  *  the  sail  broad 
vans'  of  the  Great  Enemy,  he  waved  them  as  if  they  were  moved 
by  the  impetuous  rush  of  a  whirlwind.  For  the  common  things 
of  this  work-day  world,  he  cared  little  or  nothing.  He  was 
among  men,  but  not  of  them.  The  only  woman  that  he  ever  sin 
cerely  loved,  was  Eve.  He  attended  to  her  with  constant  devo 
tion.  He  prankt  her  pathway  with  roses  :  he  spread  around  her 
the  amaranth  bowers  and  banks  of  Eden  and  Asphodel ;  and  the 
land  which  he  bequeathed  her,  was,  to  use  the  language  of  an 
auctioneer's  advertisement,  '  well  watered  and  timbered.'  He 
hated  Satan  '  as  he  did  the  devil ;'  and  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  he  has  exaggerated  the  demerits  of  that  famous  individual. 


OLLAPODIANA.  179 

But  I  am  wandering.  I  demand  back  my  spirit  for  other 
matters.  

READER  o'  mine,  have  you  been  sleighing  this  winter  ?  There 
were  some  three  days  of  the  genuine  weather  for  that  object,  in 
the  Philadelphia  meridian,  and  the  improvement  thereof  was 
great.  Every  one  partook  of  the  general  joy.  Little  dogs  ran 
like  mad  through  the  streets,  and  their  barks  were  a  mingling  of 
laughter  and  yell,  evidently  the  produce  of  excessive  animal 
spirits.  It  was  delightful  to  embark  in  a  full  sleigh,  bells  ringing 
cheerfully  in  the  ear,  the  city  lessening  in  the  distance  at  one's 
.  back,  and  the  broad  white  waste  of  the  country  expanding  to  the 
eye !  There  is  a  sense  of  chastened  solemnity  about  the  dull 
brown  woods,  mingling  afar  with  the  pale  blueness  of  the  distance, 
and  the  crimson  of  an  evening  sky,  fading  gradually  behind  their 
branches. 

'  While  soft,  on  icy  pool  and  stream, 
Their  pencilled  shadows  fall.' 

I  hardly  know  of  anything  which  carries  me  more  forcibly  back 
to  younger  and  purer  days,  than  a  winter's  scene.  There  is 
something  in  sleigh-ride  remembrances  that  stirs  a  potent  witche 
ry  of  pleasure  in  the  very  depths  of  the  heart.  Sometimes  when, 
after  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  a  southern  wind  has  arisen,  bringing 
rain  upon  its  wings,  and  when  the  breath  of  Boreas  has  afterward 
breathed  over  it,  in  competition  with  his  opposite  neighbor,  a 
a  gloss  shines  over  the  whole  face  of  the  earth  ;  and,  as  the  sun 
rises  or  goes  down,  the 'entire  radius  of  the  horizon  seems  like  a 
waving  ocean  of  blue  and  gold  !  Then  to  see  the  sun  go  down, 
or  to  see  it  rise  !  Then  to  see  the  large  dazzling  stars  in  the 
vault  of  midnight,  or  the  moon  walking  in  brightness,  or  sus 
pended  like  a  vast  balloon  of  transparent  light  in  heaven  !  Then 
the  soul  goes  up  to  GOD  :  there  is  an  eloquence  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night ;  the  ear  hums  with  silence,  and  fairy  voices  seem 
breathing  from  the  snow.  The  unclouded  grandeur  of  Omnipo 
tence  kindles  the  mind ;  there  is  solemnity  in  the  howl  of  the 
watch-dog  from  the  hill-side ;  in  the  sluggish  clouds,  rolling 
their  languid  and  fleecy  skirts  upward  from  the  horizon. 

SLEIGH-RIDING  and  skating  are  my  delights.  Give  me  a  sat 
isfactory  pair  of  high-dutchers,  curled  fantastically  over  the  toe  of 
my  boots,  the  straps  nicely  adjusted,  the  line  of  steel  ringing  and 
thrilling  along  my  soZe,  the  Delaware  or  Fair-Mount  dam  for  my 
theatre,  and  I  can  enact  more  wonders  than  a  man  ;  playing  such 
tricks  before  high  heaven,  that  a  disinterested  angel  might  bend 


180  OLLAPODIANA. 

complacently  from  his  pavilion  in  the  upper  air,  to  scrutinize  my 
gyrations,  and  see  how  I  performed. 

Sliding  down  the  hill,  on  the  other  hand,  is  an  eminent  bore. 
I  wonder  at  my  urchin  infatuation  in  having  ey^er  patronized  it. 
There  is  such  a  world  of  labor,  and  such  a  meager  amount  of 
pleasure.  One  half  of  it,  to  use  an  appropriate  phrase,  is  '  up 
hill  business.'  If  there  are  any  young  countrymen  among  my 
readers  who  have  a  lake  in  their  neighborhood,  I  can  tell  them 
of  a  system  greatly  in  vogue  when  I  was  a  student.  The  follow 
ing  is  the  recipe : 

Take  a  pole,  say  twenty  feet  long ;  place  it  on  a  little  upright 
stick  of  wood,  cut  so  that  at  the  top  two  branches  may  be  re 
moved,  so  as  to  be  something  in  the  shape  of  a  letter  Y :  let  this 
be  fastened  in  solid  ice,  when  the  lake  is  right  firmly  encrusted, 
and  safe  as  a  floor :  then  place  the  pole  at  the  bottom  of  the 
triangle  described  by  the  branches  of  the  upright  stick  ;  let  a  long 
rope  be  at  the  end  of  the  pole,  and  at  the  end  of  the  rope  a  sled, 
with  runners  that  cross  each  other  at  right  angles,  under  a  high 
box,  filled  with  boys  and  girls,  properly  seated.  Two  stout  fel 
lows  can  easily  turn  the  pole  in  the  cavity  of  the  Y,  something  in 
the  way  in  which  an  oar  is  pulled  in  a  regatta.  Wait  a  moment, 
reader,  I  beseech  you,  and  see  the  effect,  when  the  impulse  has 
crept  to  the  rope's  end.  The  sled  starts  like  a  comet  behind 
time :  it  describes  a  far-off  circle,  widening  and  widening ;  the 
passengers  can  scarcely  see  ;  they  breathe  quickly  but  happily ; 
and  I  verily  believe  that  (being  conscious  of  safety,  even  were 
the  ice  as  thin  as  a  wafer,)  any  goodly  company  of  young  people 
thus  engaged  can  enjoy  a  very  satisfactory  prologue  to  the  sen 
sations  of  an  aeronant  on  a  trip,  and  feel  as  Virgil  did  when  he 
begged  Maecenas  to  rank  him  among  the  lyric  poets : 

'  Sublimi  feriam  sidera  vertice.' 

TALKING  of  poets  and  prologues,  bids  me  discourse  of  the 
great  merit  of  SHAKSPEARE  in  these  impressive  productions. 
His  prologues  are  seldom  spoken  ;  stage  people  exclude  them 
from  the  public,  and  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  they  become 
closet  familiars  with  the  scholar.  Shakspeare's  prologues  teem 
with  meaning  and  description.  Strong,  brief,  and  simple,  they 
are  yet  full  of  adventure  and  action.  Take  the  following  as  an 
example.  It  is  the  opening  of  '  Troilus  and  Cressida  :' 

4  IN  Troy  there  lies  the  scene.     From  isles  of  Greece, 
The  princes  orgulous,  their  high-blood  chafed, 
Have  to  the  port  of  Athens  sent  their  ships, 
Fraught  with  the  ministers  and  instruments 


OLLAPODIANA.  181 

Of  cruel  war.     Sixty  and  nine  that  wore 

Their  crownets  regal,  from  th'  Athenian  bay 

Put  forth  toward  Phrygia  ;  and  their  vow  is  made 

To  ransack  Troy  ;  within  whose  strong  immures 

The  ravisht  Helen,  Menelaus'  queen, 

With  wanton  Paris  sleeps — and  that's  the  quarrel. 

4  To  Tenedos  they  come  ; 
And  the  deep-drawing  barks  do  there  disgorge 
Their  warlike  fraughtage  :  now,  on  Dardan  plains, 
The  fresh  and  yet  unbruiesd  Greeks  do  pitch 
Their  brave  pavilions  :  Priam's  six-gated  city, 
Dardan  and  Tymbria,  Ilias,  Chetas,  Trojan, 
And  Antenorides,  with  massy  staples, 
And  corresponsive  and  fulfilling  bolts, 
Skerr  up  the  sons  of  Troy,'  etc. 

WELL,  after  all,  life  itself  is  but  a  dim  prologue  to  that  day 
of  days,  when  the  curtain  of  eternity  will  be  lifted,  and  '  the 
swelling  act'  begin  !  The  thought  is  a  deep  one.  Here,  we  are 
begirt  with  mystery.  The  Past  rises  with  its  shadows,  only  to 
the  eye  of  Imagination  :  of  the  Wrong  that  has  flourished  and 
been  successful,  we  know  not  yet  the  destiny  ;  of  the  Right  that 
has  suffered,  in  weariness  and  painfulness,  we  know  not  the  re 
ward.  Who  shall  unravel  the  marvel,  or  dispel  the  illusion  ? 
Of  the  events  which  happened,  reader,  when  we  were  yet  '  in  the 
dark  night  of  our  fore-beings,'  or  ever  the  stars,  or  the  moon 
walking  in  brightness,  or  the  sun — glorious  shadow  and  faint 
type  of  GOD! — had  touched  our  mortal  vision,  who  shall  tell? 
The  time  gone  is  a  dream  ;  the  time  to  come,  unknown.  Tru 
ly  did  one  of  yore  say,  as  he  discoursed  of  sepulchral  mementoes, 
and  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  lofty  structures  of  Egyptian  ambi 
tion  :  '  Time  sadly  overcometh  all  things,  and  is  now  dominant, 
and  sitteth  upon  a  sphynx,  and  looketh  unto  Memphis  and  old 
Thebes ;  while  his  sister,  Oblivion,  reclineth  semi-somnous  on  a 
pyramid,  making  puzzles  of  Titanian  erections,  and  turning  old 
glories  into  dreams.  History  sinketh  beneath  her  cloud.  The 
traveller,  as  he  paceth  amazedly  through  those  deserts,  asketh  of 
her  who  builded  them,  and  she  mumbleth  something,  but  what  it 
is,  he  heareth  not.'  Thus  it  is,  that  the  position  of  our  being  de-  • 
fies  all  primary  or  ultimate  inquiry.  If  we  look  back,  there  is  a 
point  where  knowledge  fades  into  conjecture ;  if  onward,  we 
stand  upon  the  border  of  a  sea  which  has  but  one  shore,  and 
whose  heavings  beyond  are  infinite  and  eternal !  Of  what  avail 
is  it,  then,  that  we  bend  over  the  lore  of  antiquity,  or  wax  pale 
over  the  lamp  of  midnight ;  that  we  walk  in  the  fields,  catching 
the  faint  utterance  of  the  voice  of  GOD  ?  We  spend  our  strength 


182  OLLAPODIANA. 

for  naught :  the  clouds  roll  with  an  uncomprehended  impulse  ; 
the  wave  heaves,  the  verdure  brightens,  the  wind  turneth  in  its 
circuits  —  but  what  are  we?  We  drink  the  sunshine  and  the 
breeze ;  passions  warm  us ;  doubt  overshadows,  hope  inspires, 
fear  haunts  us  :  but  we  are  still  in  mystery.  Pleasure  and  pain 
are  equally  uncertain ;  the  morrow  is  in  a  mist,  and  •  yesterday  is 
nothing.  Our  friends  die  ;  GOD  changes  their  countenance  and 
takes  them  away  ;  and  where  is  the  balm  for  so  bitter  a  sting  ? 
It  is  to  consider  the  earth  as  no  abiding  place  ;  to  rely  on  a  power 
beyond  our  own ;  to  disdain  the  sneer  of  the  bigot,  the  hot 
language  of  the  zealot,  and  to  cherish  in  one's  heart  of  hearts 
that  essence  of  the  beatitudes — the  religion  of  life. 

LET  no  vain  hopes  deceive  the  mind : 
No  happier  let  us  hope  to  find 

To-morrow  than  to-day : 
Our  golden  dreams  of  yore  were  bright — 
Like  them  the  present  shall  delight, 

Like  them  decay. 

Our  lives  like  hastening  streams  must  be, 
That  into  one  engulfing  sea 

Are  doomed  to  fall : 

The  sea  of  death  —  whose  waves  roll  on, 
O'er  king  and  kingdom,  crown  and  throne, 

And  swallow  all ! 

Alike  the  river's  lordly  pride, 
Alike  the  humble  rivulet's  glide 

To  that  sad  wave  ; 
Death  levels  poverty  and  pride, 
And  rich  and  poor  sleep  side  by  side,  , 

Within  the  grave ! 

To  this  complexion  at  last  must  we  come  ;  and  our  question 
ings  of  the  elements,  or  of  the  mind,  are  alike  in  vain.  How 
often  has  passionate  Grief  invoked  the  hosts  of  heaven  to  restore 
the  lost !  Yet  when  the  clod  has  once  fallen  with  its  hollow 
sound  upon  the  coffin  lid  ;  when  its  melancholy  echo  has  sunk 
unheard  over  the  tuneless  ear  of  Death,  who  that  has  stood  by, 
and  heard  the  requiem  for  the  departed  soul,  but  has  wondered 
for  its  flight  ?  Where  is  the  heart  that  has  not  poured  forth  its 
plaint,  amid  the  stillness  of  the  night,  when  the  ear 

'From  echoing  hill  or  thicket,  oft  has  seemed 
To  hear  celestial  voices  ?' 

It  is  then  that  the  soul  longs  for  the  astrologer's  power — the 
consultation  of  the  stars.  Among  these  orbs,  gemming  the  night 
with  lustre,  where  do  the  Departed  dwell  ?  Who  can  pierce  the 
blue  mystery  above,  to  tell  ?  There  they  shine  from  age  to  age ; 


OLLAPODIANA.  183 

-glorious  clusters,  flooding  the  empyrean  with  paths  of  light,  and 
looking  down  in  beauty  on  the  mutations  of  a  '  wicked  and  per 
verse  world  !'  Is  it  among  those  floating  jewels,  scattered  from 
the  crown  of  the  Almighty,  where  the  prismatic  light  gleams  from 
the  gates  of  Paradise,  that  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and 
.the  weary  are  at  rest  ? 

'ANSWER  me,  burning  stars  of  night, 

Where  hath  the  spirit  gone, 
That  past  the  reach  of  human  sight 

Even  as  a  breeze  hath  flown  ? 
And  the  stars  answer  me  :  '  We  roll 

In  light  and  power  on  high, 
But  of  the  never-dying  soul, 

Ask  that  which  cannot  die  ." 

BY  the  way,  I  would  not  speak  too  reverently  of  astrology  ; 
for  I  consider  it  a  mythological  humbug,  which  was  exploded  at 
•Belshazzar's  feast.  When  that  distinguished  personage  was  in 
the  midst  of  his  entertainment ;  when  the  lamps  shone  brightly 
over  fair  women  and  brave  men  ;  there  came  a  passage  of  super 
natural  chirography  over  against  him  on  the  wall  of  his  palace, 
which  he  could  not  decipher.  Scratching  his  royal  head,  in. 
grievous  doubt,  he  called  unto  him  his  astrologers  and  soothsay 
ers,  (celestial  proof-readers,)  but  *  they  could  not  make  known 
unto  him  the  interpretation  of  the  thing.'  Ever  since  reading  this 
sketch  of  that  princely  dinner,  I  have  had  a  great  distrust  of  your 
star-gazers.  I  am  of  this  mind  with  Browne  :  *  We  do  not  re 
ject  or  condemn  a  sober  and  regulated  astrology ;  we  hold  there 
is  more  truth  therein  than  in  astrologers ;  in  some  more  than 
many  allow,  yet  in  none  so  much  as  some  pretend.  We  deny 
not  the  influence  of  the  stars,  but  often  suspect  the  due  applica 
tion  thereof;  for  though  we  should  affirm  that  all  things  were  in 
all  things ;  that  heaven  were  but  earth  celestified,  and  earth  but 
heaven  terrestrified ;  or  that  each  part  had  an  influence  upon  its 
divided  affinity  below,  yet  how  to  single  out  these  relations,  and 
duly  to  apply  their  actions,  is  a  work  oft-times  to  be  effected  by 
some  revelation  and  cabala  from  above,  rather  than  any  philoso 
phy  or  speculation  here  below.  What  power  soever  they  have 
upon  our  bodies,  it  is  not  requisite  they  should  destroy  our  rea 
sons — that  is,  to  make  us  rely  on  the  strength*  of  Nature,  when 
she  is  least  able  to  relieve  us  ;  and  when  we  conceive  heaven 
against  us,  to  refuse  the  assistance  of  the  earth,  created  for  us.' 

TALKING  of  stars,  leads  me  to  astronomy,  and  thence  to  the 
calculations  of  the  exact  sciences,  whereby  that  prescience  of 


184  OLLAPODIANA. 

the  future,  which  approaches  divinity,  and  seems  to  snatch  a  pre 
rogative  from  the  Almighty,  is  revealed.  The  profanum  vulgus, 
even,  have  a  dim  but  indefinable  reverence  for  figurative  lore. 
Thus  TEDDY  O'RouRKE,  in  the  play,  when  he  usurps  the  place 
of  my  learned  friend,  Doctor  O'TooLE,  after  the  'Salve  Domi- 
num!1  of  Doctor  FLAIL,  and  the  puzzling  reply  of  'Scumulum 
Tag'roogeen  /'  goes  on  to  bewilder  himself  in  the  mazes  of '  cat- 
aphysics,'  and  the  literature  of  '  the  Thabans,  the  Russians,  the 
Turks,  and  the  rest  of  the  Greeks,'  and  winds  up  with  the  knock 
down  conclusion,  '  Things  mathematics  /' 


BUT  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  wish"  to  touch  upon  a 
subject  familiar  to  every  youth  who  has  handled  a  pen  while  a 
student,  and  sat  up  till  midnight  to  court  the  nine,  when  he  should 
have  been  in  bed  by  ten.  I  mean  the  producing  of  tributes  for 
albums.  Oh  !  bore  of  bores  !  How  many  despairing  digits,  at 
the  command  of  young  virgins,  have  ploughed  themselves  into 
the  dandriff  of  the  unpractised  writer,  in  order  to  procure  one  or 
two  ideas  to  dilute  into  an  album  !  No  one  can  tell  the  amount 
of  misery  that  is  inflicted  in  this  way  upon  the  youthful  portions 
of  mankind.  There  is  no  release  from  a  thraldom  of  this  kind  ; 
and  if  by  dogged  obstinacy  you  should  happen  to  effect  your  re 
demption  thence,  you  are  like  the  *  Prisoner  released,  from  the 
Bastile,'  whereof  all  juveniles  have  read.  No  one  will  know  you ; 
you  will  be  cut  by  the  lover  of  your  bright-eyed  cousin,  and  by 
herself.  In  fact,  one  might  as  well  stipulate  wantonly  for  a  bad 
epitaph  from  a  cutter  of  tomb-stones,  as  to  attempt  release  from 
the  scribblative  obligation.  There  is  no  discharge  in  that  war  of 
the  pen.  For  me,  I  can  say  with  the  apostle,  that  if  all  I  had 
recorded  in  albums,  from  a  desire  to  preserve  my  female  friend 
ships,  and  to  do  what  is  denominated  '  the  handsome  thing,'  '  I  sup 
pose  the  world  could  not  contain  the  books  that  had  been  written.' 

Once,  however,  I  was  put  to  my  trumps.  A  respectable  mil 
liner,  who  had  made  a  beautiful  bonnet  for  a  cousin,  desired  her, 
as  a  special  favor,  to  procure  me  to  '  head  the  list'  of  contributors 
to  her  album.  I  received  the  volume.  It  was  a  blank-book,  and 
the  first  two  pages  were  devoted  to  memoranda  of  disposed-of 
millinett,  dimity,  ribbons,  gros-de-naps,  and  so  forth.  The  pages 
were  ruled  across«in  blue,  and  rectangularly,  near  the  outer  edge, 
in  red,  forming  squares  for  the  register  of  dollars  and  cents.  A 
thought  struck  me,  that  I  could  make  a  novel  hit  in  the  ars  po- 
etica,  by  bringing  in  figures  to  my  aid.  ^Figures?  thought  I, 
*  are  certainly  allowable  in  poetry;  and  though  I  cannot' flatter 
the  vanity  of  the  fair  owner  of  this  quarto,  (for  she  was  very  nice; 


OLLAPODIANA. 


185 


and  very  pretty,  except  that  one  of  her  optics  leered  askew,)  in 
my  verse,  perhaps  I  may  do  it  in  my  motto.'  For  that  I  drew 
upon  the  Scriptures  :  and  the  sum  total  of  the  whole  followeth : 

4TO  MISS  LUCRETIA  SOPHONISBA  MATILDA  JERUSHA  CATLING: 

THOU  hast  ravished  my  heart  —  thou  hast  ravished  my  heart  with  one  of  thine 
eyes  !  Thy  neck  is  like  the  tower  of  David,  builded  for  an  armory,  whereon  there 
hang  a  thousand  bucklers,  all  shields  of  mighty  men.  How  beautiful  are  thy  feet, 
with  shoes  !  Thy  neck  is  as  a  tower  of  ivory :  thine  eyes  like  the  fish-pools  in  Heshbon, 
by  the  gate  of  Bath-Rabbin  :  thy  nose  is  as  the  tower  of  Lebanon,  which  looketh  to 
ward  Damascus.  How  fair  and  pleasant  art  thou,  0  love,  for  delights  ." 

[From  the  Canticles,  or  the  Song  of  Songs,  as  originally  written  by  Solomont 
and  sung  by  him  at  Jerusalem^  with  great  applause.] 


THOU  canst  not  hope,  oh  !  nymph  divine, 

That  I  should  ever  court  the         - 

Or  that  when  passion's  glow  is  done, 

My  heart  can  ever  love  but  -         -        -        - 

When  from  Hope's  flowers  exhales  the  dew, 

Then  Love's  false  smile  deserts  us 

Then  Fancy's  radiance  'gins  to  flee, 

And  life  is  robbed  of  all  the 

And  Sorrow,  sad,  her  tears  must  pour 

O'er  cheeks  where  roses  bloomed  be     -'!<l  '<•' 

Yes  !  life's  a  scene  all  dim  as  Styx  ; 

Its  joys  are  dear  at  -         - 

Its  raptures  fly  so  quickly  hence, 

They  're  scarcely  cheap  at  -         -        -•        * 

Oh !  for  the  dreams  that  then  survive  ! 

They  're  high  at  pennies     - 

The  breast  no  more  is  filled  with  heaven, 

When  years  it  numbers        . 

And  yields  it  up  to  Manhood's  fate, 

About  the  age  of         -         -         -     -    - 

Finds  the  world  cold,  and  dim,  and  dirty, 

Ere  the  heart's  annual  count  is     - 

Alas  !  for  all  the  joys  that  follow, 

I  would  not  give  a  quarter-dollar! 

This,  charming  artiste,  is  the  sum 
To  which  life's  added  items  come. 
If  into  farther  sums  I  stride, 
I  see  the  figures  multiplied. 
Subtract  the  profit  ones  from  those 
Whose  all  to  loss  untimely  goes, 
And  in  the  aggregate  you  find 
Enough  to  assure  the  thinking  mind 
That  there's  an  overplus  of  evil, 
Enough  to  fright  the  very  d —  1 ! 

Thus,  my  dear  maid,  I  send  to  you 
The  balance  of  my  metre  d  ue  ; 
Please  scrutinize  the  above  amount, 
And  set  it  down  in  my  account ; 
A  wink  to  a  horse  is  as  good  as  a  nod  — 
Your  humble  servant,  OLLAPOD* 


9 
1 
2 
3 

4—19 

3/6 

18d 

25 

27 

28 

30 

25— 1.97J 


186  OLLAPODIANA. 

BY  the  way,  is  it  not  wonderful,  that  though  in  relation  to  ce 
lestial  prospects,  figures  cannot  lie,  yet  in  terrestrial  matters  they 
are  mendacious  to  the  last  degree  ?  It  is  even  so.  There  are  nu 
merous  improvements  in  our  country,  for  example,  which  a  few 
years  ago  would  have  been  stigmatized  as  the  dream  of  the  min 
strel,  now  apparent  as  the  certainties  of  fact.  Who,  ten  years 
since,  would  have  thought  of  a  ship  canal  from  the  lakes  to  the 
ocean! — passing  through  fertile  regions,  bearing  the  white  sail 
on  its  waters,  the  wealth  of  the  interior,  and  the  stores  of  Ormus 
or  of  Ind  on  its  bosom  !  Yet  a  few  years,  and  the  wilderness 
which  once  was  barren,  shall  resound  with  the  hum  of  commerce, 
be  dimmed  with  the  smoke  of  cities,  and  astonished  with  the  bus 
tle  of  mercantile  life.  We  are  not  a  stationary  people :  we  go 
onward  ;  and  if  the  best  spirit  that  ever  was  filled  of  yore  with 
high  dreams  of  hope  for  the  country,  were  now  among  us,  what 
would  be  the  scene  of  its  vision  ?  Imagination  furls  her  wing, 
and  lets  Reality  take  the  lead. 

But  I  forbear.  I  am  at  my  sheet's  edge.  Hereafter  I  will 
seize  the  theme,  now  but  begun, 

*  and  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  storm 

Bears  the  cloud  onward.' 

Till  then,  gentle  reader,  I  am  wholly  thine. 

OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER    EIGHTEEN. 

April,  1837. 

KIND  READER  :  All  eyes  of  late  have  been  turned  toward 
Washington.  The  last  process  of  president-making  has  there 
been  perfected,  and  the  beauty  of  the  republican  system  made 
manifest.  The  national  metropolis,  which  is  indeed,  and  pun 
ning  aside,  a  capital  place,  was  crowded  to  abundant  repletion. 
Men,  it  is  said,  in  the  annals  of  that  week,  slept  wheresoever 
they  could  place  their  superabounding  skulls ;  some  in  rail-cars, 
some  in  the  corners  of  suburban  fences,  and  others,  like  the  har 
vests  of  old,  were  '  gathered  into  barns,'  consorting  with  jealous 
rats,  and  provident  mousers ;  lashed  by  the  scampering  tails  of 
the  one,  and  visited  by  the  omniscient  whiskers  of  the  other. 
In  truth,  from  all  we  hear,  it  was  a  pressing  time  altogether,  and 
the  bed-market  was  never  so  tight  before  in  the  memory  of  the 


OLLAPODIANA.  18' 

oldest  inhabitant  of  Washington.  But  why  should  I  enlarge  upon 
this  point  —  an  imaginary  one  as  far  as  1  am  concerned? 

'Of  the  people  that  suffered  from  evils  that  were, 
I  can  not  tell  —  for  I  was  not  there.' 

But  the  pressure  thitherward  has  awakened  the  remembrance 
of  a  visit  to  that  region  some  dozens  of  moons  ago.  Washing 
ton  is  always  sui  generis,  in  its  main  features  ;  and  turnpikes, 
sheets  of  water,  with  towns  and  cities,  do  not  change  materially 
in  so  short  a  time. 

Every  one  who  has  crossed  the  line  of  Mason  and  Dixon, 
knows  what  sort  of  a  river  the  Delaware  is.  On  one  side,  as 
thou  goest  toward  the  south,  from  the  city  of  PENN,  thou  per- 
ceivest  the  low  shore  of  Jersey,  calm  and  green ;  on  the  other, 
in  the  direction  of  the  Occident,  may  be  seen  the  undulating 
slopes  and  swells  of  Pennsylvania,  melting  into  distance ;  before 
thee  is  the  crystal  river,  an  affrighted  member  of  the  ichthyologi- 
cal  tribe,  frightened  by  the  coming  boat,  springing  now  and  then 
from  its  bosom  —  saltation  by  steam. 

Consider  me  on  my  way  to  the  City  of  Distances.  The  dif 
ference  between  the  two  shores  and  states  is  preserved,  as  far  as 

you  go.  I  pointed  out  to  my  friends,  G.  W.  C and  Le 

Compte  C 1,  the  beauty  of  the  scenes  we  were  passing. 

The  latter  enjoyed  them  with  that  keen  and  relishing  sense, 
natural  in  one  but  a  few  months  in  the  country,  *  and  sharp  with 
his  eyes.'  The  tame  canals  of  Europe,  the  trekschuyt,  and  the 
sleepy  landscapes  from  its  portals  of  observation,  were  contrasted 
with  the  free  and  majestic  movement  of  our  good  steamer,  and 
the  scenes  from  its  airy  deck,  or  its  cabin  windows. 

WE  are  on  the  Chesapeake.  It  is  early  autumn.  A  few  frosts 
have  descended  upon  the  woodlands,  whose  painted  masses  hang 
over  the  edge  of  the  distant  wave,  like  an  ocean  of  rainbows, 
just  breaking  in  turbulence  upon  a  lake  of  pure  and  molten  sil 
ver.  Golden  flashes  of  sunshine  play  in  tremulous  lines  for 
miles  along  the  wave  ;  the  distant  sail  flits  into  indistinctness,  and 
the  duck,  poising  its  wing  on  the  western  gale,  skims  the  blue 
ridges  in  the  south-east  like  the  messenger  of  a  spirit,  dropping 
ever  and  anon  to  float  on  its  nest  on  the  billow,  and  turn  its  quick 
iris  to  the  smoky  craft,  gliding  like  a  '  sea  chimera'  on  the  distant 
waste.  

THE  approach  to  Baltimore  was  likest  to  magic.  A  long  pile 
of  rosy  clouds,  whether  the  incense  of  the  city,  or  the  offspring 


188  OLLAPODIANA. 

of  the  bay,  clung  to  the  base  of  the  town,  steeped  in  the  gushes 
of  the  sunset,  and  extending  for  miles  on  either  hand.  Above 
these  clouds  rose  the  domes  of  cathedrals,  churches,  and  min 
sters  !  and  over  all,  the  slender  but  simple  and  majestic  shaft,  at 
which  whosoever  looketh,  he  shall  be  instantly  reminded  of  the 
Father  of  his  Country,  the  immortal  WASHINGTON.  It  springs 
toward  the  heavens  with  a  plain  but  a  commanding  austerity. 
There,  around  the  crowning  statue,  breathes  the  air  of  freedom ; 
there  circulates  the  sunlight  which  gilds  the  pinion  of  the  eagle, 
or  lights  the  plumage  of  the  dove,  as  she  sails  to  her  rest. 

THE  City  of  Monuments  is  worth  a  week  of  observation. 
When  thou  touchest  that  spot,  oh,  Tourist!  rest  thee  there 
awhile.  Go  forth  into  the  town.  Remain  not  too  long  at  morn 
over  Barnum's  rich  coffee  and  cakes,  nor  at  noon  over  his  wines, 
those  succulent,  magical  things,  but  get  thee  out  into  the  thorough 
fares.  Convey  yourself  to  the  Holiday-street  Temple ;  and  if 
the  gas  be  dubiously  fragrant,  thou  wilt  get  respectable  dramatics, 
and  thine  evening  shall  be  well  nigh  spent  ere  it  seem  begun. 


BALTIMORE,  like  Boston,  is  a  city  of  ups  and  downs.  It  is 
memorable  to  me ;  for  it  was  in  that  city  of  monuments  that  I 
had  well  nigh  lost  my  life.  That  spice  of  the  adventurous  which 
has  accompanied  me  from  my  earliest  days,  led  me  to  ascend  the 
long  ladder,  said  to  have  been  some  seventy  feet  high,  placed  on 
the  outside  of  the  great  dome  of  the  cathedral,  then  undergoing 
repairs.  The  upward  distance  lent  an  enchantment  to  my  eye, 
which  was  irresistible.  I  fancied  that  the  view  from  the  '  topmost 
round'  of  those  tapering  ladders,  tied  together  with  ropes,  would 
be  magnificent.  I  was  not  disappointed.  The  bay  melted  afar 
into  the  iris-blue  of  air  ;  that  golden  edging,  which  hangs  over 
forest  tops  and  waters  in  summer,  whose  tremulousness  makes 
the  eye  ache  with  gazing,  and  fills  the  heart  with  happy  and  ethe 
real  feelings.  Landward,  the  country  spread  brightly  around, 
seamed  with  brown  roads,  and  fading  afar  into  apparent  ridges, 
and  swells  of  cedar-green.  It  was  a  calm  and  cheerful  day,  and 
every  object  in  unison  one  with  another.  The  air  was  rarefied 
and  sweet ;  the  last  odor  of  the  latest  flowers  of  summer  seemed 
floating  by  in  the  sunshine  ••  and  I  fancied  that  the  voices  of  sum 
mer-birds,  taking  their  farewells  for  distant  climes,  were  mingling 
with  them.  The  shipping  in  the  harbor  sent  every  pennon  to  the 
gale ;  the  flag-staffs  waved  their  signals,  and,  what  with  the  fresh 
breeze,  and  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  it  really  seemed  a  gala- 
day. 


OLLAPODIANA.  189 

After  having  fed  my  eyes  with  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  from 
the  extreme  height  of  the  ladder,  the  voices  of  the  workmen  in 
the  cupola,  or  on  the  balustrade  above,  making  a  pleasant  hum 
in  my  ear,  I  prepared  to  descend.  But  the  moment  I  looked  to 
ward  the  earth,  a  dizziness  came  upon  me,  which  almost  led  me 
to  instantaneous  self-abandonment.  My  brain  reeled,  my  eyes 
grew  dim ;  a  sleepy  sensation  crept  over  me ;  the  whole  cathe 
dral  seemed  to  recede  from  my  gaze ;  and  for  a  moment  I  seem 
ed  as  if  sailing  in  the  air.  I  had  not  descended  more  than  a 
dozen  rounds,  when  my  tottering  steps  and  trembling  hands 
really  seemed  to  refuse  their  office.  My  sickness  increased,  and 
a  languor  crept  over  my  perceptions,  like  the  effect  of  an  ano 
dyne.  I  felt  myself  absolutely  becoming  indifferent  to  my  peril, 
though  I  knew  it  well.  I  was  in  truth  as  if  in  a  dream ;  and  I 
can  safely  aver,  that  I  felt  myself  losing  all  consciousness,  when 
I  heard  one  of  the  laborers  above  —  and  the  words  came  to  my 
ear  as  if  from  the  supernatural  lips  of  a  spirit — *  My  God!  that 
young  gentleman  is  going  to  fall  /' 

This  sentence  went  like  fire  to  my  brain,  and  rolled  like  a  flood 
of  lava  over  every  nerve.  It  restored  me  instantly  to  a  full  per 
ception  of  my  case,  and  my  course.  I  grasped  the  rounds  of 
the  ladder  with  the  firmness  which  a  drowning  man  exhibits 
when  clutching,  in  the  bubbling  groan  of  his  last  agony,  at  the 
slenderest  spar.  Every  foot-fall  shook  the  ladder  from  end  to 
end  ;  and  when  I  touched  the  ground,  I  felt  precisely  as  if  res 
cued  from  the  grave. 

FROM  Baltimore  to  Washington,  the  route  is  what  one  might 
call  dull.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  impression  of  the  road  upon 
our  party  of  three  and  a  servant,  as  we  wheeled  over  the  yellow 
line,  y'clept  a  turnpike.  The  view  therefrom  is  limited,  being 
confined  to  a  few  brown  landscapes,  describing,  as  it  were,  a 
stone' s-throw-radius  on  either  hand.  One  stirring  scene,  how 
ever,  I  must  needs  except.  There  is  a  point,  as  you  go  from 
Baltimore,  Washington-ward,  where  the  former  city  lifts  itself  in 
supreme  beauty  along  the  line  of  the  horizon.  Dome,  tower, 
and  temple,  point  their  glowing  indices  toward  that  heaven  to 
which  their  ministering  spirits  guide  the  way ;  a  wide  lapse  of 
silver  bounds  the  view ;  and  over  all,  like  a  pyramid  above  the 
plains  of  Memphis  or  of  Thebes,  or  like  to  the  Needles,  named 
of  her  who  wooed  an  ANTHONY  to  her  bosom,  and  who  fed 
from  those  fair  orbs  the  scorpion  which  killed  her ;  rose  that  thin 
shaft  which  commemorates  the  fame  of  WASHINGTON,  the  Sa 
viour  of  his  Country.  As  I  turned  my  head,  (thrust  forth  in 


190  OLLAPODIANA. 

search  of  the  picturesque,  from  the  window  of  our  coach),  to 
survey  the  parting  glories  of  that  tall  white  column,  my  heart 
swelled  into  my  throat ;  for,  my  dear  American  reader,  I  am 
peculiarly  susceptible  of  patriotic  influences.  A  sign-post,  with 
WASHINGTON  at  its  top,  calls  forth  my  admiration.  I  have  wept 
at  the  plaudits  of  an  audience  at  the  theatre,  when  the  falling  of 
a  new  drop-curtain  has  disclosed  the  form  or  features  of  the 
Pater  Patrice.  Simple,  republican,  austere  in  honor,  sublime  in 
war,  beloved  in  peace ;  when  shall  we  look  upon  his  like  again  ? 
I  am  not  of  those  who  fancy  that  any  eulogy  can  be  misused 
upon  his  memory;  nor  do  I  think  that  terms  and- tributes,  though 
often  repeated,  can  ever  grow  familiar  or  aged,  when  applied  to 
his  name.  Therefore  I  offer,  as  the  best  synopsis  of  his  merits, 
a  stanza  which  may  be  familiar  to  many,  and  yet  new  to  the 
majority  of  those  who  now  follow  my  words : 

'His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star — 
The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car, 

At  Battle's  call; 

His  Scipio's  virtue ;  his  the  skill 
And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal : 

His  was  Aurelius'  soul  divine, 
The  clemency  of  Antonine, 

And  generous  will : 
In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway, 

And  stern  command : 
The  faith  of  Constantine — ay,  more  — 
The  fevent  love  Camillus  bore 

His  native  land.' 

The  sun  had  gone  to  bed  in  a  pile  of  fleecy  and  feathery 
clouds,  flushed  like  the  heart  of  a  summer  rose,  long  before  we 
had  reached  the  Great  Capital.  A  storm  came  on  ;  the  rain 
pattered  heavily  against  our  carriage-window  ;  and  when  we  first 
caught  the  reflection  of  lights  against  them  from  the  lamps  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  capitol,  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  embarked  in  a 
vehicle,  chartered  by  Phaeton,  to  be  conveyed  whithersoever  his 
eccentric  whipship  would. 

A  PRESENTATION  at  the  American  court,  at  a  private  au 
dience,  and  with  a  foreign  functionary,  is  not  an  ordinary  matter 
of  your  working-day  world.  With  anticipations  of  this  sort,  so 
it  was  that  I  was  awakened  by  our  attendant  in  a  crowded  sky- 
parlor  at  GADSBY'S  through  whose  uppermost  casement  I  looked 
and  saw  the  splendors  of  an  autumnal  morning  sun  streaming 
over  the  capital,  at  the  distant  end  of  Pennsylvania  Avenue* 


OLLAPODIANA.  191 

But  what  a  strange  melange  of  town  and  country  between ! 
Fields  near  at  hand  ;  rural  waters  twinkling  nigh ;  and  at  long 
intervals,  the  indications  of  a  city.  One  finds  no  direct  chance 
of  deciding  upon  his  whereabout.  At  first,  he  fancies  it  may  be 
rus  in  urbe;  at  the  next  moment,  he  concludes  himself  surrounded 
cum  urbs  in  rure.  Thenceforth,  those  abstruse  mysteries,  the 
points  of  a  compass  ;  properly  belonging  to  the  shipman's  card, 
and  not  manipulated  by  lubbers  o'  the  land ;  become  to  him  in 
explicable  enigmas.  He  knows  the  contradistinction  of  heads 
and  heels,  barely ;  all  facts  beyond  outventure  his  philosophy. 


THERE  is  a  halo  of  '  glorification,'  after  all,  about  a  function 
ary,  high  in  office  and  place,  which  makes  the  heart  of  your 
humble  denizen  beat  quicker,  as  he  approaches  the  imperial  den. 
Thus  it  was  with  me,  as  our  coach  wheeled  up  to  the  mansion 
where  le  Compte  was  to  find  himself  accredited.  The  ceremo 
nies  on  such  occasions  are  pleasant  to  the  spectator,  and  though 
simple,  are  imposing.  A  group  of  gray-heads  and  time-worn 
forms ;  expressions  of  polite  regards,  in  different  accents  and  va 
rious  language;  bows  and  kind  assurances,  are  the  staple  scenes 
and  sounds  on  such  occasions. 

At  the  same  time,  it  is  right  republican  to  see  the  President, 
with  a  free-and-easy  air,  ask  his  Secretary  of  State  to  light  a 
paper  that  he  may  convey  the  blaze  thereof  to  a  pipe,  the  stem 
of  which  would  not  measure  in  length  more  than  three  inches, 
and  the  smoke  from  the  bowl  thereof  would  coil  up  within  a 
hair's  breadth  of  the  presidential  nose.  It  reminds  one  of  those 
calm  and  luxurious  times,  signalized  in  the  reign  of  WOUTER 
VAN  TWILLER,  in  the  days  when  the  KNICKERBOCKERS,  pyra 
mids  of  their  day  and  generation,  towered  aloft  in  Dutch  and  dar 
ing  dignity.  

AMONG  the  fair  women  of  that  day  and  hour,  was  the  gifted 

and  accomplished  ****  L .     Song,  it  was  said,  had  breathed 

around  her  footsteps  from  lyres  of  fame ;  and  one  devoted  bardr 
(so  Rumor  breathes)  poured  after  her  when  abroad,  the  song  that 
ensueth.  He  had  heard,  erroneously,  that  she  was  dead : 

'TO  CORA, 
i. 

•  I  SANG  to  thee  my  matin  hymn 

In  life's  auspicious  hour, 
Ere  the  sunlight  of  joy  grew  dim, 
O'er  beauty's  vernal  bower ; 


192  OLLAPODIANA. 

For  all  the  wealth  of  heaven  above, 

And  all  beneath  the  sea, 
I  would  not  then  have  sold  the  love 

Thou  freely  gav'st  to  me. 

ii- 
« When  youth's  bright  hopes  began  to  fail, 

I  sung  an  altered  strain  — 
The  farewell  to  the  fading  sail 

That  bore  thee  o'er  the  main  ; 
And  as  I  pressed  thy  gentle  form, 

And  heard  thy  parting  vow, 
Thy  kisses  on  my  lips  were  warm, 

Thy  tears  were  on  my  brow! 

in. 
4  Still  fall  those  tears  ?     Sweet  mourner,  no ! 

Beyond  the  unquiet  wave, 
Thy  broken  heart  forgot  its  wo, 

But  only  in  the  grave ! 
There  Memory  weeps  —  while  trusting  Love 

Looks  through  the  clouds  of  even, 
To  view  thine  angel  form  above, 

A  habitant  of  heaven!' 

Nothing  can  well  be  prettier,  or  more  pathetic,  than  this  effu 
sion  ;  yet  the  catastrophe  part,  as  my  friend  of  the  Albany  Argus 
would  say,  was  4  gratuitous.'  The  parties  afterward,  mayhap, 
read  it  together,  and  pointed  out  the  chronological  inaccuracies  ; 
which  reminds  me,  or  might  remind  me,  of  a  circumstance  lately 
related  in  one  of  the  western  papers,  where  a  gentleman  who  had 
been  advertised  as  deceased,  wrote  a  polite  note  to  the  editor  of 
the  journal,  (who  had  thus  among  his  personal  ship-news  re 
corded  a  false  clearance  for  eternity),  somewhat  as  follows : 

*  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  Will  you  allow  me  to  correct  a  slight  statement  in  your 
last,  with  reference  to  my  death  ?  I  am  grateful  for  the  compliments  to  my 
character  in  your  obituary  notice,  and  I  believe  them  deserved.  That  I 
tried  to  do  the  handsome  thing  while  I  lived,  is  most  true  ;  true,  too,  is  it,  that 
I  never  backed  out  of  a  fight,  and  never  saw  the  man  that  could  whip  me, 
when  alive;  and  I  say  the  same  yet,  'being  dead,'  according  to  your  story. 
But  when  you  state,  that  I  left  my  affairs  unsettled,  and  my  widow  and 
those  eleven  children  unprovided  for,  I  have  only  to  state,  that  you  lie  in 
your  throat !  I  mean  no  offence  in  what  1  say  ;  I  speak  in  the  aggregate 
sense  of  the  term.  Being  a  dead  man,  and  printed  down  as  such  in  your 
columns,  I  am  incapable  of  mortal  resentments  ;  but  I  leave  as  my  avengers, 
CAIN,  ABEL,  and  SIMPK.INS,  printers  and  publishers  of  the  Occidental 
Trumpet  and  Mississippi  Battle- Axe.  To  the  editor  of  that  paper,  I  submit 
my  fame.  To  his  indomitable  coolness,  never  yet  ruffled  by  repeated  con 
tumely,  and  invulnerable  to  contempt,  I  confide  my  reputation  :  feeling 
certain  that  one  who  has  never  found  satisfaction  for  an  insult,  (nor  sought 
it  indeed,)  can  fail  to  be  a  champion  in  my  cause.  That  he  may  be  in  peril 
in  my  advocacy,  is  possible  ;  but  he  knows  how  to  shun  it.  He  is  inde 
pendent,  for  he  is  unknown  ;  he  is  fearless,  for  no  man  will  touch  a  hair  of 
his  head.  To  that  important  GULLIVER,  in  whatsoever  cave  or  fastness  he 
may  dwell,  I  surrender  my  fame.  Yours,  'till  death, 

ROSWELL  ADAMS  GREENE.' 


OLLAPODIANA.  193 

But  I  wander,  and  I  recall  my  rambling  spirit  back  to  the 
American  capital. 

ATTENDED  church.  'Tis  a  dull  business  in  Washington. 
One's  devotional  feelings,  that  in  ordinary  cities  kindle  and  rise 
heavenward,  at  the  anthems  of  the  choir,  or  the  pealing  of  the 
organ,  come  down,  in  the  metropolis  of  the  republic,  to  the  shal 
low  and  factitious  distinctions  of  this  common  sphere  of  earth. 
The  preachers  at  Washington  have  been  variously  described. 
Just  before  the  session  of  the  National  Legislature,  as  at  the 
period  of  which  I  speak,  crowds  of  the  reverend  cloth  convene, 
for  the  chaplaincy  of  Congress,  and  other  purposes.  Of  course, 
as  many  of  these  as  can,  accomplish  the  entre  to  the  metropoli 
tan  desk,  to  display  their  powers.  The  divine  I  had  the  happi 
ness  to  hear,  in  some  respects  resembled  the  man  whom  my  dear 
lamented  SANDS  described  in  his  *  Scenes  at  Washington.' 
Argument  was  his  hobby ;  and  he  would  curtail  a  sentence  of 
its  dimensions,  and  subvert  all  gleanings,  scriptural,  historical,  or 
political,  to  fortify  the  same.  He  reminded  me  of  that  queer  and 
rural  divine,  of  whom  I  have  heard  in  Massachusetts,  who  found 
his  congregation  indulging  in  all  the  extravagances  of  provincial 
fashion,  and  rebuked  them  en  masse,  (especially  the  fairer  part, 
who  indulged  in  flaunting  top-knots,  and  dresses  of  the  head), 
by  choosing  for  one  of  his  sermons  the  following  text :  *  Top- 
knot  come  down?  From  this  text  he  deduced  a  world  of  sacred 
ratiocination.  He  expatiated  upon  the  uselessness  of  top-knots, 
and  enlarged  upon  his  scriptural  injunction  that  they  should  come 
down.  Toward  the  close  of  his  sermon,  he  confessed  that  he 
had  merely  adopted  a  clause;  but  he  said  that  any  detached 
sentence,  even,-  from  Holy  Writ,  was  profitable  for  reproof  and 
instruction.  *  The  context  of  the  clause,'  he  added,  *  I  will  now 
join  with  the  text.  It  is  thus  written;  'Let  him  that  is  on  the 
house-fop  not  come  down."1  Comment  is  unnecessary! 

THERE  is  a  story  of  this  same  man  of  GOD,  now  gathered  to 
his  fathers,  (or  named  at  least  of  him,)  for  which  I  have  great  re 
spect.  It  seems  that  he  encountered  a  confirmed  infidel  one  even 
ing  at  a  donation-party ;  a  man  who  respected  the  pastor  of  the 
town,  though  he  did  not  credit  his  doctrines.  By  accident,  they 
engaged  in  a  controversy,. and  the  infidel  endeavored  to  prove,  by 
Holy  Writ,  in  the  same  text-choosing  method  for  which  his  op- 
nent  was  proverbial,  that  the  priests  of  old  were  drunkards,  and 
that  they  imbibed  '  potations  pottle  deep,'  in  public. 

*  How  do  you  prove  that  ?  Give  me  an  instance,'  said  the 
clerical  gladiator.  13 


194  OLLAPODIANA. 

*  Well,'  was  the  reply,  *  look  at  the  coronation  of  SOLOMON, 
where  it  is  expressly  stated  that  Zadok,  the  priest  who  anointed 
him,  '  took  a  horn.'' ' 

*  Yes,'  said  he  of  the  cloth,  '  but  you  do  n't  give  the  whole 
passage,  which  is  this  :  'And  Zadok  the  priest  took  a  horn  of 
oil,  and  anointed  Solomon,' ' 

'  I  did  not  say  what  he  did  with  his  horn,'  rejoined  the  infidel; 
*  I  only  contended  that  he  took  it.' 

'  Good,  very  good  !'  responded  the  divine,  warming  at  the  quiz 
which  he  saw  was  directed  towards  himself :  '  you  are  ingenious 
in  your  argument ;  but  I  can  prove  by  the  Scriptures,  in  the 
same  way,  that  instead  of  being  here,  resolving  doubts  and  dis 
puting  with  me,  you  should  be  swinging  on  a  gallows  at  this  mo 
ment,  by  your  own  consent  and  deed.' 

'  No,  no  ;  that's  beyond  your  skill ;  and  if  you  will  establish 
what  you  propose,  by  any  kind  of  ratiocination,  I  will  confess  my 
deserts,  as  soon  &s  they  are  shown.' 

'  Agreed.  Now  do  we  not  read  in  the  Bible,  that  '  Judas  went 
and  hanged  himself?'  ' 

1  Yes,  we  do.' 

*  Do  you  not  find  in  another  part  of  the  Sacred  Word,  '  Go 
thou  and  do  likewise  T  ' 

'  Yes  ;  you  have  proved  that  as  far  as  you  go.     What  next  ?' 

*  Only  one  clause  more,'  replied  the  divine.     The  Bible  also 
says,   *  What  thou  doest,  do  quickly.'     Now,  my  friend,  go  and 
hang  yourself  at  once  !' 

'  Not  till  I  show  you  the  text  to  your  charity  sermon,  preached 
for  the  Widow's  Society  in  Boston,  last  spring.  Here  it  is  ; 
and  there  is  a  word  there,  which  you  either  have  not  properly 
written  or  properly  read.' 

Saying  this,  he  drew  a  pamphlet  from  his  pocket,  and  pointed 
to  the  opening  passage.  It  ran  thus  :  '  Then  he  rebuked  the 
winds,  and  the  sea,  and  lo  !  there  was  a  great  clam  /'  '  Why  do 
bring  your  texts  to  such  an  amphibious  and  testaceous  termina 
tion  r 

The  good  man  was  thunderstruck.  He  acknowledged  that 
there  was  an  error  ;  but  he  contended  that  shell-fish  might  have 
existed  at  that  ancient  period  : 

'  E'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still.' 


UNFORTUNATELY,  typical  mutations  in  published  MSS.  have 
come  down  to  the  present  day.  Not  many  moons  since,  I  was 
called  upon  by  a  small  and  humble-looking  person,  in  green  spec- 


OLLAPODIANA.  195 

tacles,  behind  which  there  rolled  two  enormous  gray  eyes.  He 
said  he  was  a  man  of  many  occupations,  and  sometimes  dabbled 
in  literature.  He  had  thoughts  of  buying  some  western  lands, 
if  any  one  would  credit  him  for  six  years,  and  in  that  way  make 
his  fortune.  A  friend  in  Texas  had  also  assured  him  that  he 
could  get  some  lots  there  on  the  same  terms.  In  these  enterpri 
ses  he  wished  me  to  join  him.  But  first,  and  before  showing 
me  some  poetry  which  had  been  spoilt  in  the  publication,  he 
wished  me  to  loan  him  a  shilling,  and  accept  his  note  to  that 
amountj  '  with  sixty  days  to  run.'  A  humorous  thought  struck 
me,  and  I  chose  the  latter,  with  the  direction  that  he  should  try 
it  for  discount  at  the  United  States'  Bank.  The  next  day  I  re 
ceived  a  carefully-written  *  business  letter'  from  him,  which  (after 
promising  to  call  on  me  in  an  hour  after  I  received  it)  contained 
the  ensuing : 

*  December  17. 

'Mr  DEAR  SIR  :  I  have  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  BIDDLE,  and  truly  la 
ment  ray  inability  to  communicate  satisfactory  results.  I  fear  that  until  the 
resolution  of  the  Senator  from  Ohio,  in  regard  to  the  repeal  of  the  Treasury 
order,  is  finally  disposed  of,  the  trading  interests  will  materially  suffer. 

*  The  Board  of  Directors,  however,  have  some  reason  to  indulge  in  the 
pleasing  hope,  that  a  small  keg  of  ten-cent-pieces  will  arrive  from  Tinnicum, 
some  time  during  the  ensuing  week  ;  in  which  case,  the  president  has  proni- 
ised  to  exert  his  influence  in  my  behalf  on  the  next  discount-day. 

*  If  we  should  be  successful  in  ultimately  elevating  the  breeze  (raising  the 
wind)  on  my  promissory  note,  we  can  proceed  without  delay  to  our  contem 
plated  acquisitions  in  Michilimackinac  lands,  and  Texas  scrip. 

«  5Tour  obedient  friend,  ZEBEDEE  FUSSY.* 

He  was  with  me,  almost  before  I  had  read  his  letter.  '  Ah  ! ' 
said  he,  *  reading  my  scroll,  I  see.  Funny  circumstance.  But 
never  mind.  You  make  pieces  sometimes  for  the  KNICKER 
BOCKER,  don't  you?  —  apt  kind  o'  pieces,  that  come  out  of  your 
head  ?  I  borrow  that  there  periodical,  sometimes,  of  a  friend, 
and  I  seen  a  piece-t  there  about  a  man  who  was  the  '  Victim  of 
a  Proof-reader.'  I  am  one  of  that  class.  Two  years  ago  I  was  in 
love.  I  was  jilted.  Hang  details  ;  the  upshot  is  the  main  thing. 
Well,  I  had  tried  the  young  lady,  and  found  her  wanting ;  and  I 
thought  I  would  quote  a  line  of  Scripture  onto  her,  as  a  motto 
for  some  bitter  and  reproachful  verses.'  So,  holding  a  manu 
script  in  one  hand  high  up,  and  placing  the  other  arm  a-kimbo, 
he  read  as  follows  : 

•TO  ONE  FOUND  WANTING. 

1  Mene,  mene,  tekel  upharsin ." — SCRIPTURE. 

4  THOU  art  no  more,  what  once  I  knew 
Thy  heart  and  guileless  tongue  to  be ; 


196  OLLAPODIANA. 

Thou  art  no  longer  pure  and  true, 

Nor  fond,  to  one  who  knelt  to  thee  ; 
Who  knelt,  and  deemed  thee  all  his  own, 

Nor  knew  a  dearer  wish  beside  ; 
Who  made  his  trembling  passion  known, 

And  looked  to  own  thee  for  a  bride. 

*  What  is  the  vow  that  once  I  heard 

From  those  balm-breathing  lips  of  thine  ? 
Broken,  ah  !  broken,  word  by  word, 

E'en  while  I  worshipped  at  thy  shrine  ! 
Broken  by  thee,  to  whom  I  bowed, 

As  bends  the  wind-flower  to  the  breeze, 
As  bent  the  Chaldean,  through  the  cloud, 

To  Orion  and  the  Pleiades. 

'But  thou  art  lost !  and  I  no  more 

Must  drink  thy  undeceiving  glance  ; 
Our  thousand  fondling  spells  are  o'er  — 

Our  raptured  moments  in  the  dance. 
Vanished,  like  dew-drops  from  the  spray 

Are  moments  which  in  beauty  flew  ; 
I  cast  life's  brightest  pearl  away, 

And,  false  one,  breathe  my  last  adieu !' 

Here  he  stopped,  his  gray  eyes  rolling  in  a  wild  frenzy,  and 
drew  a  newspaper  from  his  breeches  pocket.  '  Sir,'  said  he, 
striking  an  attitude,  'I  sent  them  verses  for  to  be  printed  into  the 
*  Literary  Steam-boat  and  General  Western  Alligator.''  Jt  is  a 
paper,  Sir,  with  immense  circulation.  A  column  in  it,  to  be  read 
by  the  boatmen  and  raftsmen  of  the  west,  is  immortality.  I  say 
nothing.  Just  see  how  my  effusion  was  butchered.  I  can't 
read  it.J 

I  took  the  paper,  a  little  yellow  six-by-eight  folio,  and  read 
thus: 

« TO  ORE,  FOUND  WASHING. 

— 
'Mere,  mere,  treacle,  O'Sartin." — SCULPTURE. 

'  THOU  hast  no  means,  at  once  to  slew 

Thy  beasts,  and  girdless  tongues  to  tree  ; 
Thou  hast  no  1'argent,  pure  and  true, 

Nor  feed,  for  one  who  knelt  to  thee  : 
Who  knelt,  and  dreemed  thy  all  his  own, 

Nor  knew  a  drearer  wish  betidle, 
Who  maid  his  tumbling  parsnips  known, 

And  looked  to  arm  thee  for  a  bridle  ! 

•  What  is  the  row  ?  what  once  I  heard 

From  those  brow-beating  limps  of  thine  ? 
Brokers  !  oh,  brokers  !  one  by  one, 
E'en  while  I  worshipped  at  thy  shine  ! 


OLLAPODIANA.  197 

Broker  by  three !  to  whom  I  lowed, 

As  lends  the  wind-flaw  to  the  tries  ! 
As  burst  the  chaldron  thro'  the  clod, 

To  Onions,  and  the  fleas  as  dies  ! 

'But  thou  art  lost!  and  I  no  more 

Mus  dirk  thy  undeceaving  glance  ; 
One  thous  &  friendly  squills  are  o'er, 

Our  ruptured  moments  in  the  dance ! 
Varnished,  like  dew-drops  from  the  sprag, 

Are  moments  which  in  business  flew  ! 
I  cut  life's  brightest  peal  a-wag, 

And,  false  one,  break  my  bust  —  a  dieu  !' 

On  breaking  into  a  loud  laugh  at  the  utter  stupidity  of  this 
typical  metamorphosis,  I  found  that  the  stranger  grew  red  in  the 
face.  He  snatched  the  paper  from  my  hand,  and  disappeared, 
making  his  bow  as  he  retired. 

And,  beloved  reader,  having  exceeded  my  boundaries,  let  me 
do  the  same.  Thine  till  doomsday,  OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER    NINETEEN. 

August,  1837. 


WHETHER  you  be  gentle  or  simple,  reader,  whether  poetical 
or  prose  enamored,  you  have  been  free  from  any  inflictions  or 
productions  of  mine,  whichsoever  you  may  please  to  call  them, 
any  time  these  several  months.  If  the  omission  has  been  griev- 
vous,  you  may  have  had  a  monition  that  your  life  is  not  all  sun 
shine,  many  things  being  oft  anticipated,  which  come  not  to  hand 
of  him  that  desireth  them ;  if  pleasing,  you  are  now  reminded, 
that  pleasures  of  a  sublunary  character  are  too  brief  to  have  long 
uniform  continuance,  since  '  diuturnity  of  delight  is  a  dream,  and 
folly  of  expectation.'  So  much  for  prefatory  philosophy.  PLA 
TO,  when  he  paced  along  the  olive  walks,  beneath  the  groves  of 
Academe,  or  listened  to  the  prattle  of  shining  Grecian  streams 
of  yore,  never  knew  what  it  was  to  meditate  the  exordium  of  a 
magazine  paper.  As  yet,  when  he  flourished,  *  editors  and  agents 
of  periodicals'  never  took  prominent  parts  in  university  proces 
sions,  with  toll-gate  keepers,  sea-serpents  and  American  eagles, 
as  was  jocosely  related  of  the  late  conflagratory  assemblage  in  the 
edifice  of  Brown,  on  Providence  Plantations. 

By  the  way,  I  laughed  extremely  at  the  piece  to  which  I  al 
lude,  which  was  full  of  delightsome  and  most  facetious  things, 
right  aptly  conceited.  It  was  an  imaginary  procession  at  Brown 


198  OLLAPODIANA. 

University,  on  occasion  of  burning  all  the  literary  productions  of 
the  students  for  the  last  five  or  six  years.  Had  the  sacrificial 
mandate  extended  to  the  honorary  members  of  her  societies,  then 
would  OLLAPOD  have  been  obliged  to  be  present  with  his  offer 
ing  to  the  insatiate  elements ;  and  with  '  survivors  of  the  Boston 
massacre,  in  coaches,'  or  '  superannuated  toll-keepers  of  the 
Pawtucket  Turnpike,'  followed  in  the  train  of  the  great  marine 
visitor  at  Nahant,  or  that  supposed  bird,  met  by  the  dreamer  (im 
mortalized  by  the  muse  of  SANDS)  who  sailed  a-nigh  it  in  his 
vision,  what  time  his  spectral  charger  waved  to  the  breeze  of 
midnight 

•  '  the  long,  long  tail,  that  glorified 
That  glorious  animal's  hinder  side  !' 

I'LL  warrant  me  a  dozen  of  Burgundy,  with  all  olives  and  ap 
purtenances  thereunto  properly  belonging,  that  this  same  humor 
ous  description  gave  offence  to  those  who  support  the  dignity  of 
a  time-honored  alma-mater.  But  they  must  have  laughed  in 
their  sleeves  at  the  witty  conception  of  it.  Yet  it  is  an  old  say 
ing,  '  A  blow  with  a  word  strikes  deeper  than  one  with  a  sword.' 
'  Many  men,'  saith  the  profound  old  Democritus,  Junior,  '  are  as 
much  gauled  with  a  jest,  a  pasquil,  satyre,  epigram,  or  the  like, 
as  with  any  misfortune  whatever.  Princes  and  potentates,  that 
are  otherwise  happy,  and  have  all  at  command,  secure  and  free, 
are  grievously  vexed  with  these  pasquilling  satyrs :  they  fear  a 
railing  Aretine,  more  than  an  enemy  in  the  field ;  which  made 
most  princes  of  his  time,  as  some  relate,  allow  him  a  liberal  pen 
sion,  that  he  should  not  tax  them  in  his  satyrs.  The  gods  had 
their  Momus,  Homer  his  Zoilus,  Achilles  his  Thersites,  Philip 
his  Demades  ;  the  Caesars  themselves  in  Rome  were  commonly 
taunted.  There  was  never  wanting  a  Petronius,  a  Lucian,  in 
those  times  ;  nor  will  be  a  Rabelais,  an  Euphormio,  a  Boccalinus, 
in  ours.  Adrian  the  Sixth,  pope,  was  so  highly  offended  and 
grievously  vexed  with  pasquils  at  Rome,  he  gave  command  that 
satyre  should  be  demolished  and  burned,  the  ashes  flung  into  the 
river  Tiber,  and  had  it  done  forthwith,  had  not  Ludovicus,  a 
facete  companion,  dissuaded  him  to  the  contrary,  by  telling  him 
that  pasquils  would  turn  to  frogs  in  the  bottom  of  the  river,  and 
croak  worse  and  louder  than  before.'  A  right  pithy  description 
is  this,  of  the  effect  of  wit  and  words1. 

I  HAVE  sometimes  guffawed  immeasurably,  at  the  sharp  cuts 
and  thrusts  not  seldom  indulged  by  the  current  writers  of  our 
country,  both  in  periodicals  and  newspapers.  Not  that  I  par- 


OLLAPODIANA.  199 

ticularly  affect  the  vapid  abortions  which  appear  in  each  depart 
ment,  as  now  and  then  they  must  inevitably  do  ;  but  names  and 
sources  might  readily  be  mentioned  in  both,  whereat  the  general 
lip  shall  curl  you  a  smile,  as  if  by  intuition.  Our  magazines  have 
a  goodly  sprinkling  of  the  cheerful ;  and  in  dull  times,  one  can 
but  wish  that  they  even  had  more.  There  is  a  spirit,  and  I  men 
tioned  but  now  the  name  of  its  incarnate  habitation,  which  has 
gone  from  among  us,  no  more  to  return.  Ah  me  ! — that  spirit! 
It  was  stored  with  sublunary  lore ;  calm,  philosophical,  observant; 
a  lens,  through  which  the  colors  of  a  warm  heart,  full  of  genuine 
philanthropy  and  goodness,  shone  forth  upon  the  world.  It  was 
sportive  in  its  satire,  and  its  very  sadness  was  cheerful.  Grasp 
ing  and  depicting  the  Great,  it  yet  ennobled  and  beautified  the 
Small.  Its  messengers  of  thought,  winged  and  clothed  with 
beautiful  plumage,  went  forth  in  the  world,  to  please  by  their 
changeableness,  or  to  impress  the  eye  of  fancy  with  their  endu 
ring  loveliness.  Such  was  the  spirit  of  SANDS,  whose  light  was 
quenched  for  ever,  while  *  inditing  a  good  matter'  for  the  very 
pages  which  now  embody  this  feeble  tribute  to  his  genius.*  I 
well  remember,  when  I  first  approached  his  native  city,  after  his 
death,  how  thick-coming  were  the  associations  connected  with  his 
memory,  which  brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes.  The  distant 
shades  of  Hoboken,  where  he  so  loved  to  wander ;  the  spreading 
bay,  whereon  his  l  rapt,  inspired'  eye  had  so  often  rested  ;  the 
city,  towering  sleepily  afar ;  the  fairy  hues  of  coming  twilight, 
trembling  over  the  glassy  Hudson,  sloop-bestrown ;  the  half-sil 
ver,  half-emerald  shades,  blending  together  under  the  heights  of 
Weehawken — these,  appealing  to  my  eye,  recalled  the  Lost  to 
my  side.  I  looked  to  the  shore,  and  there 

4  THE  shadows  of  departed  hours 
Hung  dim  upon  the  early  flowers  ; 
Even  in  their  sunshine  seemed  to  brood 
Something  more  deep  than  solitude.' 


No  BARD,  '  holy  and  true,'  was  ever  more  deeply  imbued  than 
SANDS  with  '  the  spirit  of  song.'  Sublimity,  tenderness,  descrip 
tion,  all  were  his.  But  in  his  dissertations  on  all  subjects,  his 
struggling  humor  at  last  came  uppermost.  From  classic  stores, 
he  could  educe  the  novel  jeu  d* esprit;  from  fanciful  premises, 
the  most  amusing  conclusions.  Having  given  a  pleasant  line  or 
two  from  one  of  his  happiest  sketches,  I  feel  irresistibly  inclined 
to  encompass  the  whole.  It  is  necessary  beforehand,  to  discern 

*  ROBERT  C.  SANDS  ;  who,  while  engaged  in  writing  an  article  for  the  KNICKERBOCKER 
Magazine,  was  struck  with  paralysis,  and  almost  immediately  expired.  EDITOB. 


200  OLLAPODIANA. 

the  preamble  of  the  argument.  A  fellow-minstrel  has  indited  and 
published  to  the  world  a  fanciful  picture  of  the  national  eagle,  in 
all  its  original  wildness,  surrounded  with  characteristic  scenery. 
The  subject  is  a  grand  one,  but  over-colored  ;  and  would  seem 
to  have  been  drawn  according  to  the  admitted  principle  of  the 
writer  in  composition,  that  '  whatever  he  writes  is  either  superla 
tively  good,  or  sheer  nonsense.'  The  former  quality  sometimes 
predominates ;  but  there  is  enough  of  the  latter  in  all  he  has 
written.  The  minstrel  just  mentioned  also  gave  birth  to  a  mid 
night  phantom,  or  the  sketch  of  a  most  supernal  steed ;  the  bur 
lesque  presentment  whereof  is  hereto  annexed,  together  with  cer 
tain  allusions  to  the  feathery  emblem  of  the  republic,  which  show 
that  the  limner  knew  how  to  kill  two  rare  objects  with  one  satiri 
cal  *  fragment  of  granite  :' 

'A  MISTY  dream  —  and  a  flashy  maze  — 
Of  a  sunshiny  flush  —  and  a  moonshiny  haze  ! 
I  lay  asleep  with  my  eyes  open  wide, 
When  a  donkey  came  to  my  bedside, 
And  bade  me  forth  to  lake  a  ride. 
It  was  not  a  donkey  of  vulgar  breed, 
But  a  cloudy  vision  — a  night-mare  steed  ! 
His  ears  were  abroad  like  a  warrior's  plume— 
From  the  bosom  of  darkness  was  borrowed  the  gloom 
Of  his  dark,  dark  hide,  and  his  coal  black  hair, 
But  his  eyes  like  no  earthly  eyes  they  were  ! 
Like  the  fields  of  heaven  where  none  can  see 
The  depths  of  their  blue  eternity  ! 
Like  the  crest  of  a  helmet  taught  proudly  to  nod, 
And  wave  like  a  meteor's  train  abroad, 
Was  the  long,  long  tail  that  glorified 
That  glorious  donkey's  hinder  side! 
And  his  gait  description's  power  surpasses — 
'T  was  the  beau  ideal  of  all  jack-asses. 

*  I  strode  o'er  his  back,  and  he  took  in  his  wind  — 
And  he  pranded  before  and  he  kicked  behind  — 
And  he  gave  a  snort,  as  when  mutterings  roll 
Abroad  from  pole  to  answering  pole — 

While  the  storm-king  sits  on  the  hail-cloud's  back, 
And  amuses  himself  with  the  thunder-crack ! 
Then  off  he  went,  like  a  bird  with  red  wings, 
That  builds  her  nest  where  the  cliff-flower  springs  — 
Like  a  cloudy  steed  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
When  the  night's  muffled  horn  plays  a  windy  tune  ; 
And  away  I  went,  while  my  garment  flew 
Forth  on  the  night  breeze,  with  a  snow-shiny  hue  — 
Like  a  streak  of  white  foam  on  a  sea  of  blue. 
Up-bristled  then  the  night-charger's  hair  too, 
Like  a  bayonet  grove,  at.  a  '  shoulder-hoo  !' 

*  Hurrah !  hurrah !  what  a  hurry  we  made ! 
My  hairs  rose  too,  but  I  was  not  afraid  ; 


OLLAPODIANA.  201 

Like  a  stand  of  pikes  they  stood  up  all, 

Each  eye  stood  out  like  a  cannon-ball ; 

So  wrapt  I  looked,  like  the  god  of  song, 

As  I  shot  and  whizzed  like  a  rocket  along. 

Thus  through  the  trough  of  the  air  as  we  dash'd, 

Goodly  and  glorious  visions  flash'd 

Before  my  sight  with  a  flashing  and  sparkling, 

In  whose  blaze  all  earthly  gems  are  darkling. 

As  the  gushes  of  morning,  the  trappings  of  eve, 

Or  the  myriad  lights  that  will  dance  when  you  give 

Yourself  a  clout  on  the  orb  of  sight, 

And  see  long  ribands  of  rainbow  light : 

Such  were  the  splendors  and  so  divine, 

So  rosy  and  starry,  and  fiery  and  fine. 

*  Then  eagle !  then  stars  !  and  then  rainbows  !  and  all 
That  I  saw  at  Niagara's  tumbling  fall, 

Where  I  sung  so  divinely  of  them  and  their  glories, 
While  mewed  in  vile  durance,  and  kept  by  the  tories ; 
Where  the  red  cross  flag  was  abroad  on  the  blast, 
I  sat  very  mournful,  but  not  downcast. 
My  harp  on  the  willows  I  did  not  hang  up, 
Nor  the  winglets  of  fancy  were  suffered  to  droop, — 
But  I  soared,  and  I  swooped,  like  a  bird  with  red  wings, 
Who  mounts  to  the  cloud-god,  and  soaringly  sings. 

1  But  the  phantom  steed  in  his  whirlwind  course, 
Galloped  along  like  Beelzebub's  horse, 
Till  we  came  to  a  bank,  dark,  craggy,  and  wild, 
Where  no  rock-flowers  blushed,  no  verdure  smiled  — 
But  sparse  from  the  thunder-cliffs  bleak  and  bare, 
Like  the  plumage  of  ravens  that  warrior  helms  wear. 
And  below  very  far  was  a  gulf  profound, 
Where  tumbling  and  rumbling,  at  distance  resound 
Billowy  clouds — o'er  whose  bottomless  bed 
The  curtain  of  night  its  volumes  spread  — 
But  a  rushing  of  fire  was  revealing  the  gloom, 
Where  convulsions  had  birth,  and  the  thunders  a  home. 

*  You  may  put  out  the  eyes  of  the  sun  at  mid-day  — 

You  may  hold  a  young  cherubim  fast  by  the  tail  — 
You  may  steal  from  night's  angel  his  blanket  away  — 
Or  the  song  of  the  bard  at  its  flood-tide  may  stay, 

But  that  cloud  phantom  donkey  to  stop  you  would  fail ! 

4  He  plunged  in  the  gulf — 't  was  a  great  way  to  go, 
Ere  we  lit  mid  the  darkness  and  flashings  below  ; 
And  I  looked  —  as  I  hung  o'er  that  sulphurous  light  — 
Like  a  warrior  of  flame  !  —  on  a  courser  of  night ! 
But  what  I  beheld  in  that  dark  ocean's  roar, 
I  have  partly  described  in  a  poem  before, 
And  the  rest  I  reserve  for  a  measure  more  strong, 
When  my  heart  shall  be  heaving  and  bursting  with  song ! 

*  But  I  saw,  as  he  sailed  'mid  the  dusky  air, 
A  bird  that  I  thought  I  knew  everywhere, 


202  OLLAPODIANA. 

A  fierce  gray  bird  with  a  terrible  beak, 

With  a  glittering  eye,  and  peculiar  shriek  : 

4  Proud  Bird  of  the  Cliff!'  I  addressed  him  then  — 

'  How  my  heart  swells  high  thus  to  meet  thee  again ! 

Thou  whose  bare  bosom  for  rest  is  laid 

On  pillows  of  night  by  the  thunder-cloud  made! 

With  a  rushing  of  wings  and  a  screaming  of  praise, 

Who  in  ecstacy  soar'st  in  the  red-hot  blaze  ! 

Who  dancest  in  heaven  to  the  sound  of  the  trump, 

To  the  fife's  acclaim,  and  bass-drum's  thump  ! 

Whence  com'st  thou,'  I  cried,  '  and  goest  whither  ?' 

As  I  gently  detained  him  by  his  tail-feather. 

He  replied,  '  Mr.  NEAL  !  Mr.  NEAL  !  let  me  loose  ! 

I  am  not  an  eagle,  but  only  a  goose  ! 

Your  optics  are  weak,  and  the  weather  is  hazy  — 

And  excuse  the  remark,  but  I  think  you  are  crazy.' ' 

SANDS  was  a  lover  of  nature,  with  an  affection  l  passing  the 
iove  of  women ;'  and  he  entered  into  the  very  heart  of  her  mys 
teries.  Lately,  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  a  scene  which  he  has  de- 
painted,  in  one  of  those  quiet,  rich,  and  noble  sketches,  which 
have  gained  such  celebrity  to  his  pen.  It  was  the  KAATSKILLS. 

IT  fell  on  a  day,  when  the  guns  and  thunder  of  artillery  pro 
claimed,  according  to  the  Fourth-of-July  orators,  '  the  Birth-day 
of  Freedom,'  that  we  made  our  way  from  the  crowded  city  to  the 
majestic  craft  that  was  to  convey  us  up  the  Hudson.  What  a 
contrast  did  the  embarkation  scene  present  to  the  tranquil  Dela 
ware,  and  the  calm,  sweet  city  of  fraternal  affection  !  Thousands 
of  garish  pennons  were  abroad  on  the  gale  ;  the  winds,  as  they 
surged  along  on  their  viewless  wings,  were  heavy  with  the  sound 
of  cannon,  the  rolling  of  chariot-wheels,  and  the  shouts  of  multi 
tudes.  To  me,  it  is  an  edifying  and  a  thought-inspiring  sight,  to 
look  from  the  promenade-deck  of  a  receding  steamer  upon  a  city, 
as  it  glides  into  distance.  The  airy  heights,  ^dwelling-crowned, 
around ;  the  craft  going  to  and  fro ;  the  thousand  destinations  of 
the  throngs  that  fill  them  :  the  hopes  and  fears  that  impel  them. 
Some  are  on  errands  of  business  ;  some,  on  those  of  pleasure  : 

'  For  every  man  hath  business,  and  desire, 
Such  as  it  is,' 

Yonder  a  gay  ship,  her  sails  filled  with  air  and  sunshine,  hastens 
through  the  Narrows.  She  is  a  packet,  outward  bound.  We 
see  her  as  she  goes.  Within  her  are  hearts  sighing  to  leave  their 
native  land  ;  from  tearful  eyes  there  extends  the  level  of  the  tele 
scope  which  brings  the  distant  near ;  and  at  some  upper  casement 
in  the  town,  a  trembling  hand  waves  the  white  'kerchief,  still  de 
scried ;  at  last  it  trembles  into  a  glimmer;  the  ocean  haze  rises 


OLLAPODIANA.  203 

between,  and  the  bosom  which  it  cheered  goes  below  to  heave 
with  the  nausea  marina,  and  feel  the  benefits  of  an  attentive 
steward.  

IT  is  beautiful  to  ascend  the  Hudson,  on  the  birth-day  chris 
tened  as  aforesaid.  On  every  green  point  where  the  breeze  rus 
tles  the  foliage,  and  around  which  the  crystal  waters  roll,  you 
may  see  the  grirn  ordnance,  belching  forth  its  thunder-clap  and 
grass  wadding  ;  the  brave  officers  and  '  marshals  of  the  day,' 
sporting  their  emblems  of  immortal  glory  ;  the  urchins,  with 
chequered  pantaloons,  and  collars  turned  over  their  coats,  their 
tender  hearts  and  warm  imaginations  excited  and  wild  with  the 
grandeur  of  the  scene  ;  and  as  you  pass  some  beautiful  town,  you 
may  see  the  stars  and  stripes  waving  from  an  eminence,  near  the 
meeting-house  or  town  hall ;  and  as  you  pass  the  line  of  a  street 
which  tends  to  the  river,  you  may  eke  observe  '  the  orator  of  the 
day,'  with  his  roll  of  patriotism  and  eloquence  in  his  hand,  march 
ing  sublimely  onward,  behind  prancing  chargers,  heroes  in  gay 
attire,  meditating  death  to  any  possible  foes  of  the  country,  on 
any  future  battalious  emergency ;  and  sustained  and  soothed  (he, 
the  orator)  by  the  brattling  of  brass  horns,  and  the  roll  of  the 
stirring  drums  behind  him  ;  the  ladies,  meanwhile  —  GOD  bless 
them !  —  looking  neat  and  cheerful  at  the  windows,  or  in  the 
streets.  Then  for  the  tourist  to  see  the  places  in  such  a  transit, 
hallowed  in  his  country's  history ;  the  old  head-quarters  of 
WASHINGTON,  as  at  Newburgh,  above  whose  humble  roof,  near 
which  one  tall  and  solitary  Lombard  waved  and  whispered 
mournfully  in  the  air,  there  streamed  a  faded  red  banner,  that 
had  caught  the  roll  of  the  war-drum  in  the  revolution,  and  rustled 
its  folds  more  quickly  at  the  gun-peals  that  sent  an  iron  storm 
into  invading  breasts  !  And  then,  to  think  that  millions  on  mil 
lions,  in  '  many  a  lovely  valley  out  of  sight,'  in  states,  and  terri 
tories  stretching  to  the  flowery  prairies,  and  where  the  setting  sun 
flames  along  the  far  mountains  of  the  west,  the  same  anthems 
were  ascending ;  the  same  glorious  love  of  country  inculcated ; 
it  is  a  train  of  thought  ennobling,  pure,  imperishable  !  Then  it 
is,  that  the  mind  has  visions  which  no  vocabulary  can  clothe  and 
wreak  upon  expression  ;  when  the  faculties  ache  with  that  inde 
scribable  blending  of  love,  hope,  and  pride,  such  as  was  faintly 
shadowed  by  the  minstrel,  when  he  sang  : 

*  BREATHES  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  !' 


204  OLLAPODIANA. 

PRESUPPOSING  that  a  man  is  possessed  of  a  soul,  it  is  my  be 
lief  that  he  cannot  traverse  the  Hudson,  even  if  it  be  for  the  hun 
dredth  time,  without  new  and  delicious  sensations.  -The  noble 
shores,  now  broken  into  sweet  and  solemn  vistas,  until  they  be 
come  steeped  in  romance  ;  the  capacious  bays  ;  the  swelling 
sails ;  the  craft  of  all  sorts,  hastening  to  and  fro ;  all  are  impres 
sive  and  beautiful.  You  have  such  a  variety  of  steamer  life 
about  you,  too  ;  that  is  the  best  of  it — odd  congregations  of 
character.  Yonder  stands,  looking  at  the  shores,  and  now  and 
then  at  his  watch,  a  man  who,  by  his  look,  should  be  a  divine. 
He  hath  a  white  cravat  around  his  neck,  tied  behind  with  extreme 
closeness,  at  *  the  precise  point  betwixt  ornament  and  strangula 
tion.'  He  proceedeth  to  the  bow  of  the  boat  to  look  to  his  lug 
gage.  Such  a  one  I  saw ;  and  he  was  accosted,  somewhat  ab 
ruptly,  by  a  clock-pedlar,  who  had  been  whittling  a  pine  shrub, 
near  the  taffrail,  (and  whistling  the  sublime  national  song  of  Yan 
kee  Doodle,  that  most  dignified  effusion,)  and  who  bespake  him 
thus  :  *  Square,  you  do  n't  know  nawthing  about  that  young  wo 
man,  yender,  do  ye? — with  that  lay-lock  dress  onto  her — do  ye?' 
*  No,'  replied  the  ambassador  from  the  high  court  above,  *  I  do 
not ;  and  I  wonder  at  your  asking  me  such  a  question.' 

*  Why,  I  axed  you,  'cause  I  seen  you  a-looking  at  her  your 
self;  and  'cause  I  think  she's  blamenation  elegint !' 

*  That's  enough,  my  friend ;  you  had  better  run  along,'  was 
the  august  reply ;  and  the  colloquy  ended. 

PAUSED  for  a  moment  at  Rhinebeck,  to  release  a  passenger  in 
a  small  boat,  let  down  amid  the  agitated  foam  at  the  steamer's 
side.  How  sad,  that  the  beauties  of  a  landscape  should  be  stain 
ed  by  the  memories  of  death !  Here  once  lived,  drinking  the 
spirit  of  golden  youthful  hours,  and  rejoicing  in  existence,  a  warm 
and  devoted  friend,  now  alas  !  no  more  —  JOHN  RUDOLPH 
SUTERMEISTER.  The  pestilence,  for  such  it  was,  swept  him 
from  being,  in  the  pride  of  his  intellect,  and  the  full  flush  of  his 
manhood.  As  I  surveyed  the  place  where  he  had  embarked  for 
the  last  time  for  the  metropolis,  in  whose  romantic  suburbs  his 
bones  were  so  soon  to  lie,  the  illusion  as  it  were,  of  a  dream,  came 
over  me,  and  I  almost  fancied  I  could  see  him  coming  on  board. 
I  thought  of  the  many  pleasant  hours  we  had  consumed  together, 
in  walks  where  romance  and  early  friendship  sanctified  the  groves, 
as  the  red  sun,  tinting  the  lake,  and  closing  the  flowers,  and 
beautifying  the  tender  woodlands  of  spring,  went  down  behind 
the  cedars  of  the  west,  in  a  sea  of  gold,  and  crimson,  and  purple. 
Those  were  blessed  hours  :  moments  when  the  enthusiasm,  the 


OLLAPODIANA.  205 

glowing  hopes,  the  far-reaching  thoughts,  which  take  to  them 
selves  the  wings  of  the  eagle,  and  soar  into  the  mysteries  of  un 
born  years,  coloring  the  future  from  the  gorgeous  prism  of  the 
imagination,  all  were  ours.  How,  at  that  point  of  reminiscence, 
did  they  throng  back  to  my  experience  and  rny  view  !  I  fancied 
that  my  friend  was  by  my  side,  his  arm  in  mine ;  and  a  voice,  like 
the  tones  of  a  spirit,  seemed  breathing  in  my  ear : 

*  YET  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore  — 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more.' 

Poor  Shade !  He  seemed  ever  to  have  a  presentiment  of  his 
coming  and  early  doom  ;  and  his  prophetic  vision  often  pierced 
the  future,  in  lines  akin  to  the  solemn  stanzas  which  close  his 
beautiful  '  Night  Thoughts :' 

'  WHEN  high  in  heaven  the  moon  careers, 
She  lights  the  fountain  of  young  tears  ; 

Her  rays  play  on  the  fevered  brow  ; 
Plays  on  the  cheek  now  bright  no  more — 

Plays  on  the  withered  almond  bough, 
Which  once  the  man  of  sorrow  wore  ! 

*  *  *  *  * 

'Behold  this  elm  on  which  I  lean, 

Meet  emblem  of  my  cruel  fate  ; 
But  yestermorn,  its  leaves  were  green  — 

Now  it  lies  low  and  desolate  ! 
The  dew  which  bathes  each  faded  leaf, 
Doth  also  bathe  my  brow  of  grief. 
Alas  !  the  dews  of  DEATH  too  soon 

Will  gather  o'er  my  dreamless  sleep  ; 
A.nd  thou  wilt  beam,  O  pensive  moon, 

Where  love  should  mourn,  and  friends  should  weep !' 

But  he  was  translated  to  an  early  paradise,  by  the  kind  fiat  of 
a  benevolent  GOD.  Pure  in  heart,  fresh  and  warm  in  his  affec 
tions,  he  loved  to  live,  because  he  lived  to  love  ;  and  he  is  now 
in  that  better  country, 

'WHERE  light  doth  dance  on  many  a  crown, 
From  suns  that  never  more  go  down.' 

He  had  a  languid  but  not  unpleasing  melancholy  about  his  life, 
which  entered  into  his  verse,  and  moaned  from  every  vibration 
of  his  excelling  lyre.  How  beautiful,  how  touching,  how  mourn 
ful,  are  these  Codings  in  his  song : 

'  GIVE  not  to  me  the  wreath  of  green  — 

The  blooming  vase  of  flowers  ; 
They  breathe  of  joy  that  once  hath  been— 
Of  gone  and  faded  hours. 


206  OLLAPODIANA. 

I  cannot  love  the  rose  ;  though  rich, 

Its  beauty  will  not  last ; 
Give  me,  give  me  the  bloom,  o'er  which 

The  early  blight  hath  passed  : 
The  yellow  buds — give  them  to  rest 
On  my  cold  brow  and  joyless  breast, 

When  life  is  failing  fast. 

'Take  far  from  me  the  wine-cup  bright, 

In  hours  of  revelry  ; 
It  suits  glad  brows,  and  bosoms  light — 

It  is  not  meet  for  me ; 
Oh  !  I  can  pledge  the  heart  no  more, 

I  pledged  in  days  gone  by  ; 
Sorrow  hath  touch'd  my  bosom's  core, 

And  I  am  left  to  die  ; 
Give  me  to  drink  of  Lethe's  wave  — 
Give  me  the  lone  and  silent  grave, 

O'er  which  the  night-winds  sigh  ! 

'  Wake  not,  upon  my  tuneless  ear, 

Soft  music's  stealing  strain  : 
It  can  not  soothe,  it  can  not  cheer 

This  anguish'd  heart  again: 
But  place  th'  ^Eolian  harp  upon 

The  tomb  of  her  I  love  ; 
There,  when  heaven  shrouds  the  dying  sun, 

My  weary  steps  will  rove  ; 
As  o'er  its  chords  Night  pours  its  breath, 
To  list  the  serenade  of  death, 

Her  silent  bourne  above  ! 

'  Give  me  to  seek  that  lonely  tomb, 

Where  sleeps  the  sainted  dead, 
Now  the  pale  night-fall  throws  its  gloom 

Upon  her  narrow  bed; 
There,  while  the  winds  which  sweep  along 

O'er  the  harp-strings  are  driven, 
And  the  funereal  soul  of  song 

Upon  the  air  is  given, 
Oh !  let  my  faint  and  parting  breath 
Be  mingled  with  that  song  of  death, 

And  flee  with  it  to  heaven  !' 

ONE  picks  up  a  marvellous  degree  of  gratuitous  and  most 
novel  information  from  the  miscellaneous  people  who  pass  hither 
and  thither  in  stearn-craft.  Bits  of  knowledge  strike  you  una 
ware  ;  and  if  you  believe  it,  you  will  be  a  much  wiser  man,  when 
you  greet  the  morrow  morn  after  a  day's  travel.  For  example, 
when  we  had  passed  the  shadowy  highlands,  and  the  Kaatskills 
were  seen  heaving  their  broad  blue  shoulders  against  the  brilliant 
horizon,  a  man  with  a  pot-belly,  in  a  round-about,  with  a  bell- 
crowned  hat,  over  which  was  drawn  a  green  oil-skin,  shading  his 
tallowy  cheeks,  and  most  rubicund  nose,  approached  my  side, 


OLLAPODIANA.  207 

and  interrupted  my  reverie,  by  volunteering  some  intelligence. 
'  Them  is  very  respectable  mountains,'  he  said,  *  but  a  man  do  n't 
know  nothin'  about  articles  of  that  kind,  unless  he  sees  the  tower 
of  Scotland.  I  am  not,  as  you  may  likely  be  about  to  inquire, 
a  natyve  of  that  country ;  but  I  have  saw  friends  which  has  been 
there ;  and  furthermore,  the  mountains  there  was  all  named  after 
relations  of  mine,  by  the  mother's  side.  At  present,  all  them 
elewated  sections  of  country  is  nick-named.  Now  the  name  of 
Ben.  Lomond  has  been  curtailed  into  an  abbreviation.  That  hill 
was  named  after  an  uncle  of  my  grandfather's,  Benjamin  Lomond. 
Ben.  Nevis  was  a  brother  of  my  grandmother's,  who  had  the 
same  given  name ;  and  a  better  man  than  Benjamin  Nevis  never 
broke  bread,  or  got  up  in  the  morning.  From  all  accounts,  he 
was  consid'rable  wealthy,  at  one  time  ;  though  I  've  hear'n  tell 
since,  that  he  was  a  bu'sted  man.  But  just  to  think  of  all  them 
perversions  !  Is  n't  it  'orrid  ?'  With  this  and  other  information 
did  this  glorious  volunteer  in  history  break  in  upon  my  musings; 
and  when  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  clattered  away,  he  left  me 
with  an  impression  of  his  visage  in  my  mind  akin  to  that  which 
the  fat  knight  entertained  of  Bardolph  :  '  Thou  art  our  admiral ; 
thou  bearest  the  lantern  in  the  nose  of  thee ;  thou  art  the  knight 
of  the  burning  lamp.  I  never  see  thy  face,  but  I  think  of  hell- 
fire,  and  Dives,  that  lived  in  purple ;  for  there  he  is  in  his  robes, 
burning,  burning.'  

You  would  scarcely  think,  arrived  at  Kaatskill  Landing,  on 
the  Hudson,  that  just  before  you  enter  the  coach  which  conveys 
you  to  the  mountain,  that  any  extraordinary  prospect  was  about 
to  open  upon  your  vision.  True,  as  when  on  the  water,  the 
great  cloud  Presence  looms  afar ;  yet  there  is  a  long  level  coun 
try  between  it  and  you  ;  and  it  is  too  early  in  the  day  to  drink  in 
the  grandeur  of  the  scene.  You  are  content  with  watching  the 
complex  operations  of  that  aquatic  and  equestrian  mystery,  a 
horse-boat,  which  plies  from  the  humble  tavern  at  the  water's 
edge  to  the  other  shore  of  the  Hudson.  The  animals  give  a  con 
sumptive  wheeze,  as  they  start,  stretching  out  their  long  necks^ 
indulging  in  faint  recollections  of  that  happy  juvenescence,  when 
they  wasted  the  hours  of  their  colthood  in  pastures  of  clover,  and 
moving  with  a  kind  of  unambitious  sprawl,  as  if  they  cared  but 
little  whether  they  stood  or  fell ;  a  turn  of  mind  which  induces 
them  to  stir  their  forward  legs  more  glibly  than  those  in  the  oppo 
site  quarter,  quickening  the  former  from  pride,  and  '  contracting 
the  latter  from  motives  of  decency.'  This  is  said  to  be  their 
philosophy ;  and  they  act  upon  it  with  a  religious  devotion, 
'  worthy  a  better  cause.' 


208  OLLAPODIANA. 

As  you  move  along  from  the  landing,  by  pleasant  and  quiet 
waters,  and  through  scenes  of  pastoral  tranquillity,  you  seem  to 
be  threading  a  road  which  leads  through  a  peaceful  and  varie 
gated  plain.  You  lose  the  memory  of  the  highlands  and  the 
river,  in  the  thought  that  you  are  taking  a  journey  into  a  country 
as  level  as  the  lowliest  land  in  Jersey.  Sometimes  the  moun 
tains,  as  you  turn  a  point  of  the  road,  appear  afar ;  but  '  are  they 
clouds,  or  are  they  not  ?'  By  the  mass,  you  shall  hardly  tell. 
Meantime,  you  are  a  plain-traveller,  a  quiet  man.  All  at  once 
you  are  wheeled  upon  a  vernal  theatre,  some  five  or  six  miles  in 
width,  at  whose  extremity  the  bases  of  the  Kaatskills  'gin  to  rise. 
How  impressive  the  westering  sunshine,  sifting  itself  down  the 
mighty  ravines  and  hollows,  and  tinting  the  far-off  summits  with 
aerial  light !  How  majestic  yet  soft  the  gradations  from  the  pon 
derous  grandeur  of  the  formation  ;  up,  up,  to  the  giddy  and  deli 
cate  shadowings,  which  dimly  veil  and  sanctify  their  tops,  as  '  sa 
cristies  of  nature,'  where  the  cedar  rocks  to  the  wind,  and  the 
screaming  eagle  snaps  his  mandibles,  as  he  sweeps  a  circuit  of 
miles  with  one  full  impulse  of  his  glorious  wing !  Contrasting 
the  roughness  of  the  basis  with  the  printed  beauty  of  the  iris- 
hued  and  ski'ey  ultimatum,  I  could  not  but  deem  that  the  bard  of 
'  Thanatopsis'  had  well  applied  to  the  Kaatskills  those  happy  lines 
wherein  he  apostrophizes  the  famous  heights  of  Europe : 

*  YOUR  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Appenines, 
In  the  soft  light  of  your  serenest  skies ; 
From  the  broad  highland  region,  dark  with  pines, 
Fair  as  the  hills  of  paradise,  ye  rise!' 

BE  not  too  eager,  as  you  take  the  first  stage  of  the  mountain, 
to  look  about  you ;  especially,  be  not  anxious  to  look  afar.  Now 
and  then,  it  is  true,  as  the  coach  turns,  you  can  not  choose  but 
see  a  landscape,  to  the  south  and  e&&\.,  farther  o/f  than  you  ever 
saw  one  before,  broken  up  into  a  thousand  vistas ;  but  look  you  at 
them  with  a  sleepy,  sidelong  eye,  to  the  end  that  you  may  finally 
receive  from  the  Platform  the  full  glory  of  the  final  view.  In 
the  meantime,  there  is  enough  directly  about  you  to  employ  all 
your  eyes,  if  you  had  the  ocular  endowments  of  an  Argus. 
Huge  rocks,  that  might  have  been  sent  from  warring  Titans, 
decked  with  moss,  overhung  with  rugged  shrubbery,  and  cooling 
the  springs  that  trickle  from  beneath  them,  gloom  beside  the  way  ; 
vast  chasms,  which  your  coach  shall  sometimes  seem  to  over 
hang,  yawn  on  the  left ;  the  pine  and  cedar-scented  air  comes 
freely  and  sweetly  from  the  brown  bosom  of  the  woods ;  until, 
one  high  ascent  attained,  a  level  for  a  while  succeeds,  and  your 
smoking  horses  rest,  while,  with  expanding  nostril,  you  drink  in 


OLLAPODIANA.  209 

the  rarer  and  yet  rarer  air ;  a  stillness  like  the  peace  of  Eden, 
(broken  only  by  the  whisper  of  leaves,  the  faint  chant  of  em 
bowered  birds,  or  the  distant  notes  that  come  *  mellowed  and 
mingling  from  the  vale  below'),  hangs  at  the  portal  of  your  ear. 
It  is  a  time  to  be  still,  to  be  contemplative  ;  to  hear  no  voice  but 
your  own  ejaculations,  or  those  of  one  who  will  share  and 
heighten  your  enjoyment,  by  partaking  it  in  peace,  and  as  one 
with  you,  yet  alone. 


PASSING  the  ravine,  where  the  immortal  Rip  Van  Winkle 
played  his  game  of  nine-pins  with  the  wizards  of  that  neighbor 
hood,  and  quaffed  huge  draughts  of  those  bewildering  flagons, 
which  made  him  sleep  for  years,  I  flung  myself  impatiently  from 
the  '  quarter-deck'  of  the  postillion  whose  place  I  had  shared ;  I 
grasped  that  goodly  globe  of  gold  and  ivory  which  heads  my 

customary  cane  —  the  present  of  'My  Hon.  friend'  S ,  and 

which  once  drew  into  itself  the  sustenance  of  life  from  that  hal 
lowed  mound  which  guards  the  dust  of  WASHINGTON,  and 
pushed  gayly  on,  determined  to  pause  not,  until  my  weary  feet 
stood  on  the  Platform.  The  road  was  smooth  and  good ;  the 
air  refreshing  and  pure,  beyond  description.  The  lungs  play 
there  without  an  effort ;  it  is  a  luxury  to  breathe.  How  holy 
was  the  stillness !  Not  a  sound  invaded  the  solemn  air ;  it  was 
like  inhaling  the  sanctity  of  the  empyrean.  The  forest  tops  soon 
began  to  stir  as  with  a  mighty  wind.  I  looked,  and  on  both  sides 
of  the  road  there  were  trees  whose  branches  had  been  broken,  as 
if  by  the  wings  of  some  rushing  tempest.  It  was  the  havoc  of 
winter  snows. 

THERE  is  a  wonderful  deception  in  the  approach  to  the 
Mountain-House,  which,  when  discovered,  will  strike  the  travel 
ler  with  amazement.  At  one  point  of  the  road,  where  the  man 
sion  which  is  to  terminate  your  pilgrimage  heaves  its  white  form 
in  view,  (you  have  seen  it  from  the  river  for  nearly  half  a  day,) 
it  seems  not  farther  than  a  hundred  rods,  and  hangs  apparently 
on  the  verge  of  a  stupendous  crag  over  your  head  ;  the  road 
turns  again,  it  is  out  of  sight,  and  the  summits,  near  its  locus  in 
quo,  are  nearly  three  miles  off.  The  effect  is  wonderful.  The 
mountain  is  growing  upon  you. 

I  continued  to  ascend,  slowly,  but  with  patient  steps,  and  with 
a  flow  of  spirit  which  I  can  not  describe.  Looking  occasionally 
to  the  east,  I  saw  a  line  of  such  parti-colored  clouds,  (as  then  I 
deemed  them,)  yellow,  green,  and  purple,  silver-laced,  and  violet- 
bordered,  that  it  meseemed  I  never  viewed  the  like  kaleidoscopic 

14 


210  OLLAPODIANA. 

presentments.  All  this  time,  I  wondered  that  I  had  seen  no 
land  for  many  a  weary  mile. 

Hill  after  hill,  mere  ridges  of  the  mountain,  was  attained ; 
summit  after  summit  surmounted  ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  house  was  as  far  off  as  ever.  Finally  it  appeared,  and 
a-nigh ;  to  me  the  '  earth's  one  sanctuary.'  I  reached  it ;  my 
name  was  on  the  book ;  the  queries  of  the  publican,  as  to  '  how 
many  coach-loads  were  behind,'  (symptoms  of  a  yearning  for  the 
almighty  dollar,  even  in  this  holy  of  nature's  holies,)  were  an 
swered,  and  I  stood  on  the  Platform. 

GOOD  READER!  expect  me  not  to  describe  the  indescribable. 
I  feel  now,  while  memory  is  busy  in  my  brain,  in  the  silence  of 
my  library,  calling  up  that  vision  to  my  mind,  much  as  I  did 
when  I  leaned  upon  my  staff  before  that  omnipotent  picture,  and 
looked  abroad  upon  its  Goo-written  magnitude.  It  was  a  vast 
and  changeful,  a  majestic,  an  interminable  landscape;  a  fairy, 
grand,  and  delicately-colored  scene,  with  rivers  for  its  lines  of 
reflection ;  with  highlands  and  the  vales  of  States  for  its  shadow- 
ings,  and  far-off  mountains  for  its  frame.  Those  parti-colored  and 
varying  clouds,  I  fancied  I  had  seen  as  I  ascended,  were  but  por 
tions  of  the  scene.  All  colors  of  the  rainbow ;  all  softness  of 
harvest-field,  and  forest,  and  distant  cities,  and  the  towns  that  sim 
ply  dotted  the  Hudson  ;  and  far  beyond  where  that  noble  river, 
diminished  to  a  brooklet,  rolled  its  waters,  there  opened  mountain 
after  mountain,  vale  after  vale,  State  after  State,  heaved  against 
the  horizon,  to  the  north-east  and  south,  in  impressive  and  sub 
lime  confusion  ;  while  still  beyond,  in  undulating  ridges,  filled 
with  all  hues  of  light  and  shade,  coquetting  with  the  cloud,  rolled 
the  rock-ribbed  and  ancient  frame  of  this  dim  diorama !  As  the 
sun  went  down,  the  houses  and  cities  diminished  to  dots ;  the 
evening  guns  of  the  national  anniversary  came  booming  up  from 
the  valley  of  the  Hudson ;  the  bonfires  blazed  along  the  peaks 
of  distant  mountains,  and  from  the  suburbs  of  countless  villages 
along  the  river ;  while  in  the  dim  twilight, 

'From  coast  to  coast,  and  from  town  to  town, 
You  could  see  all  the  white  sails  gleaming  down.' 

The  steam-boats,  hastening  to  and  fro,  vomited  their  fires  upon 
the  air,  and  the  circuit  of  unnumbered  miles  sent  up  its  sights 
and  sounds,  from  the  region  below,  over  which  the  vast  shadows 
of  the  mountains  were  stealing. 

Just  before  the  sun  dropped  behind  the  west,  his  slant  beams 
poured  over  the  south  mountain,  and  fell  upon  a  wide  sea  of 


OLLAPODIANA.  211 

feathery  clouds,  which  were  sweeping  midway  along  its  form, 
obscuring  the  vale  below.  I  sought  an  eminence  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  with  the  sun  at  my  back,  saw  a  giant  form  depicted  in 
a  misty  halo  on  the  clouds  below.  He  was  identified,  insubstan 
tial  but  extensive  Shape !  I  stretched  forth  my  hand,  and  the 
giant  spectre  waved  his  shadowy  arm  over  the  whole  county  of 
Dutchess,  through  the  misty  atmosphere  ;  while  just  at  his  super 
natural  coat-tail,  a  shower  of  light  played  upon  the  highlands, 
verging  toward  West  Point,  on  the  river,  which  are  to  the  eye, 
from  the  Mountain-House,  level  slips  of  shore,  that  seem  scarce 
so  gross  as  knolls  of  the  smallest  size. 

OF  the  grandeur  of  the  Kaatskills  at  sunrise ;  of  the  patriotic 
blazon  which  our  bonfire  made  on  the  Fourth,  at  evening ;  of  the 
Falls,  and  certain  pecuniary  trickeries  connected  with  their  grim 
majesty,  and  a  general  digest  of  the  stupendous  scene,  shall  these 
not  be  discoursed  hereafter,  and  in  truthful  wise  ?  Yea,  reader, 
verily,  and  from  the  note-book  of  thine,  faithful  to  the  end, 

OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER   TWENTY. 

November,  1837. 

WE  parted,  good  my  reader,  last  at  the  Kaatskills — no  ?  '  It 
was  a  summer's  evening ;'  and  with  my  shadow  on  the  mountain 
mist,  I  ween,  vanished  in  your  thoughts  the  memory  of  me.  Well, 
that  was  natural.  A  hazy,  dream-like  idea  of  my  whereabout 
may  have  haunted  you  for  a  moment — but  it  passed.  I  can  not 
allow  you  to  escape  so  easily.  *  Lend  us  the  loan'  of  your  eye, 
for  some  twenty  minutes  :  and  if  you  are  a  home-bred  and  un- 
travelled  person,  't  is  likely,  as  the  valet  says  in  Cinderella,  that 
1 1  may  chance  to  make  you  stare  !' 

IN  discoursing  of  the  territorial  wonderments  in  question, 
which  have  been  moulded  by  the  hand  of  the  ALMIGHTY,  I  can 
not  suppose  that  you  who  read  my  reveries  will  look  with  a  com 
pact,  imaginative  eye  upon  that  which  has  forced  its  huge  radius 
upon  my  own  extended  vision.  I  ask  you,  howbeit,  to  take  my 
arm,  and  step  forth  with  me  from  the  piazza  of  the  Mountain 
House.  It  is  night.  A  few  stars  are  peering  from  a  dim  azure 


212  OLLAPODIANA. 

field  of  western  sky  ;  the  high-soaring  breeze,  the  breath  of  heav 
en,  makes  a  stilly  music  in  the  neighboring  pines ;  the  meek  crest 
of  Dian  rolls  along  the  blue  depths  of  ether,  tinting  with  silver 
lines  the  half  dun,  half  fleecy  clouds  ;  they  who  are  in  the  parlors 
make  '  considerable'  noise  ;  there  is  an  individual  at  the  end  of 
the  portico  discussing  his  quadruple  julep,  and  another  devotedly 
sucking  the  end  of  a  cane,  as  if  it  were  full  of  mother's  milk  ;  he 
hummeth  also  an  air  from  II  Pirata,  and  wonders,  in  the  sim 
plicity  of  his  heart,  '  why  the  devil  that  there  steam-boat  from 
Albany  does  n't  begin  to  show  its  lights  down  on  the  Hudson.' 
His  companion  of  the  glass,  however,  is  intent  on  the  renewal 
thereof.  Calling  to  him  the  chief  '  help'  of  the  place,  he  says  : 
1  Is  that  other  antifogmatic  ready  ?' 

<  No,  sir.' 

*  Well,  now,  person,  what's  the  reason  ?  What  was  my  last 
observation  ?  Says  I  to  you,  says  I,  '  Make  me  a  fourth  of 
them  beverages  ;'  and  moreover,  I  added,  '  Just  you  keep  doing 
so  ;  be  constantly  making  them,  till  the  order  is  countermanded.' 
Give  us  another ;  go  !  vanish  !  —  *  disappear  and  appear  !' ' 

The  obsequious  servant  went ;  and  returning  with  the  desired 
draught,  observed  probably  for  the  thousandth  time :  *  There ! 
that's  what  I  call  the  true  currency ;  them's  the  ginooyne  mint 
drops  ;  HA — ha — ha !  — these  separate  divisions  of  his  laughter 
coming  out  of  his  mouth  at  intervals  of  about  half  a  minute  each. 

THERE  is  a  bench  near  the  verge  of  the  Platform  where, 
when  you  sit  at  evening,  the  hollow-sounding  air  comes  up  from 
the  vast  vale  below,  like  the  restless  murmurs  of  the  ocean. 
Anchor  yourself  here  for  a  while,  reader,  with  me.  It  being  the 
evening  of  the  national  anniversary,  a  few  patriotic  individuals 
are  extremely  busy  in  piling  up  a  huge  pyramid  of  dried  pine 
branches,  barrels  covered  with  tar,  and  kegs  of  spirits,  to  a  height 
of  some  fifteen  or  twenty  feet — perhaps  higher.  A  bonfire  is 
premeditated.  You  shall  see  anon,  how  the  flames  will  rise. 
The  preparations  are  completed  ;  the  fire  is  applied.  Hear  how 
it  crackles  and  hisses  !  Slowly  but  spitefully  it  mounts  from 
limb  to  limb,  and  from  one  combustible  to  another,  until  the 
whole  welkin  is  a-blaze,  and  shaking  as  with  thunder !  It  is  a 
beautiful  sight.  The  gush  of  unwonted  radiance  rolls  in  efful 
gent  surges  adown  the  vale.  How  the  owl  hoots  with  surprise 
at  the  interrupting  light !  Bird  of  wisdom,  it  is  the  Fourth  ! 
and  you  may  well  add  your  voice  to  swell  the  choral  honors  of 
the  time.  How  the  tall  old  pines,  withered  by  the  biting  scathe 
of  Eld,  rise  to  the  view,  afar  and  near ;  white  shafts,  bottomed 


OLLAPODIANA.  213 

in  darkness,  and  standing  like  the  serried  spears  of  an  innumera 
ble  army  !  The  groups  around  the  beacon  are  gathered  togeth 
er,  but  are  forced  to  enlarge  the  circle  of  their  acquaintance,  by 
the  growing  intensity  of  the  increasing  blaze.  Some  of  them, 
being  ladies,  their  white  robes  waving  in  the  mountain  breeze, 
and  the  light  shining  full  upon  them,  present,  you  observe,  a 
beautiful  appearance.  The  pale  pillars  of  the  portico  flash  fit 
fully  into  view,  now  seen  and  gone,  like  columns  of  mist.  The 
swarthy  African  who  kindled  the  fire  regards  it  with  perspiring 
face  and  grinning  ivories  ;  and  lo  !  the  man  who  hath  mastered 
the  quintupled  glass  of  metamorphosed  eau-de-vie,  standing  by 
the  towering  pile  of  flarne,  and,  reaching  his  hand  on  high,  he 
smiteth  therewith  his  sinister  pap,  with  a  most  hollow  sound  ;  the 
knell,  as  it  were  of  his  departing  reason.  In  short,  he  is  making 
an  oration ! 

Listen  to  those  voiceful  currents  of  air,  traversing  the  vast  pro 
found  below  the  Platform  !  What  a  mighty  circumference  do 
they  sweep  !  Over  how  many  towns,  and  dwellings,  and  streams, 
and  incommunicable  woods  !  Murmurs  of  the  dark,  sources  and 
awakeners  of  sublime  imagination,  swell  from  afar.  You  have 
thoughts  of  eternity  and  power  here,  which  shall  haunt  you  ever 
more.  But  we  must  be  early  stirrers  in  the  morning.  Let  us 
to  bed.  

You  can  lie  on  your  pillow  at  the  Kaatskill  House,  and  see 
the  god  of  day  look  upon  you  from  behind  the  pinnacles  of  the 
White  Mountains  in  New  Hampshire,  hundreds  of  miles  away. 
Noble  prospect !  As  the  great  orb  heaves  up  in  ineffable  gran 
deur,  he  seems  rising  from  beneath  you,  and  you  fancy  that  you 
have  attained  an  elevation  where  may  be  seen  the  motion  of  the 
world.  No  intervening  land  to  limit  the  view,  you  seem  suspend 
ed  in  mid-air,  without  one  obstacle  to  check  the  eye.  The  scene 
is  indescribable.  The  chequered  and  interminable  vale,  sprinkled 
with  groves,  and  lakes,  and  towns,  and  streams  ;  the  mountains 
afar  off,  swelling  tumultuously  heavenward,  like  waves  of  the 
ocean,  some  incarnadined  with  radiance,  others  purpled  in  shade  ; 
all  these,  to  use  the  language  of  an  auctioneer's  advertisement, 
*  are  too  tedious  to  mention,  but  may  be  seen  on  the  premises.' 
I  know  of  but  one  picture  which  will  give  the  reader  an  idea  of 
this  ethereal  spot.  It  was  the  view  which  the  angel  Michael  was 
polite  enough,  one  summer  morning,  to  point  out  to  Adam,  from 
the  highest  hill  of  Paradise  : 

*  His  eye  might  there  command  wherever  stood 
City  of  old  or  modern  fame,  the  seat 


214  OLLAPODIANA. 

Of  mightiest  empire,  from  the  destined  walls 

Of  Cambalu,  seat  of  Cathai'an  Can, 

And  Sarmachand  by  Oxus,  Temir's  throne, 

To  Paquin  of  Sinaean  kings  ;  and  thence 

To  Agra  and  Lahor  of  great  Mogul 

Down  to  the  golden  Chersonese  ;  or  where 

The  Persian  in  Ecbatan  sat,  or  since 

In  Hizpahan  ;    or  where  the  Russian  Ksar 

In  Mosco  :  or  the  Sultan  in  Bizance, 

Turchestan  born  ;  nor  could  his  eye  not  ken 

The  empire  of  Negus,  to  his  utmost  port, 

Erocco  ;  and  the  less  maritime  kings 

Mombaza,  and  Quiloa,  and  Melind, 

And  Sofala,  thought  Ophir,  to  the  realm 

Of  Congo  and  Angola,  farthest  south  ; 

Or  thence  from  Niger  flood  to  Atlas'  mount, 

The  kingdoms  of  Almanzor,  Fez,  and  Suz, 

Morocco,  and  Algier,  and  Tremizen  ; 

On  Europe  thence,  and  where  Rome  was  to  sway 

The  world ;  in  spirit  perhaps  he  also  saw 

Rich  Mexico,  the  seat  of  Montezume, 

(And  Texas  too,  great  HOUSTON'S  seat — who  knows  ?) 

And  Cusco  in  Peru,  the  richer  seat 

Of  Atabalipa  ;  and  yet  unspoiled 

Guiana,  whose  great  city  Geyro'ns  sons 

Call  El  Dorado/ 

OF  the  Falls,  sooth  to  say,  little  can  be  ejaculated  in  the  eulo 
gistic  way.  The  cataract  is  only  '  on  hand'  for  a  part  of  the 
time.  It  is  kept  in  a  dam,  and  let  down  for  two  shillings.  The 
demand  for  the  article  has  sometimes  exceeded  the  supply,  es 
pecially  in  dry  weather.  We  quote  the  sales,  as  per  register, 
while  there,  at  perhaps  some  three  hundred  yards.  Oh,  Mercu 
ry  !  Scenery  by  the  square  foot !  Sublimity  by  the  quintal ! 

IT  looks  to  be  a  perilous  enterprise,  to  descend  the  Kaatskills, 
You  feel,  as  you  commence  the  '  facilis  descensus,'  (what  an  un 
hackneyed  phrase,  to  be  sure  !)  very  much  the  sort  of  sensation 
probably  experienced  by  Parachute  Cocking,  whose  end  was  so 
shocking.  The  wheels  of  the  coach  are  shod  with  the  prepara 
tion  of  iron  slippers,  which  are  essential  to  a  hold  up  ;  and  as 
you  bowl  and  grate  along,  with  wilderness-chasms  and  a  brawling 
stream  mayhap  on  one  hand,  and  horrid  masses  of  stone  seem 
ingly  ready  to  tumble  upon  you  on  the  other ;  the  far  plain 
stretching  like  the  sea  beneath  you,  in  the  mists  of  the  morning ; 
your  emotions  are  fidgctty.  You  are  not  afraid  —  not  you,  in 
deed  !  Catch  you  at  such  folly  !  No  ;  but  you  wish  most  de-. 
voutly  that  you  were  some  nine  miles  down,  notwithstanding,  and 
are  looking  eagerly  for  that  consummation. 


OLLAPODIANA.  215 

WE  paused  just  long  enough  at  the  base  of  the  mountain,  to 
water  the  cattle,  and  hear  a  bit  of  choice  grammar  from  the  land 
lord  ;  a  burly,  big  individual,  *  careless  of  the  objective  case,' 
and  studious  of  ease,  in  bags  of  tow-cloth,  (trowsers  by  courtesy,) 
and  a  roundabout  of  the  same  material ;  the  knees  of  the  unmen 
tionables  apparently  greened  by  kneeling  humbly  at  the  lactifer 
ous  udder  of  his  only  cow,  day  by  day.  He  addressed  '  the  gen 
tleman  that  driv'  us  down  :' 

*  Well,  Josh,  I  seen  them  rackets  /' 

*  Wa'  n't  they  almighty  bright  ?'  was  the  inquisitive  reply. 
This  short  colloquy  had  reference  to  a  train   of  fire-works 

which  were  set  off  the  evening  before  at  the  Mountain  House  ; 
long  snaky  trails  of  light,  flashing  in  their  zigzag  course  through 
the  darkness.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  those  fiery  sentences  writ 
ten  fitfully  on  the  sky,  fading  one  by  one,  like  some  Hebrew 
character,  some  Nebuchadnezzar  scroll,  in  the  dark  profound,  and 
showing,  as  the  rocket  fell  and  faded,  that  beneath  the  lowest 
deep  to  which  it  descended,  there  was  one  yet  lower  still,  to 
which  it  swept  *  plumb-down,  a  shower  of  fire.' 

We  presently  rolled  away,  and  were  soon  drawn  up  in  front 
of  the  Hudson  and  the  horse-boat,  at  the  landing.  The  same 
unfortunate  animals  were  peering  forth  from  that  aquatic  vehicle ; 
one  of  them  dropping  his  hairy  lip,  with  a  melancholy  expression, 
and  the  other  strenuously  endeavoring  to  remove  a  wisp  of  straw 
which  had  found  a  lodgment  on  his  nose.  The  effort,  however, 
was  vain ;  his  physical  energies  sank  under  the  task  ;  he  gave  it 
up,  and  was  soon  under  way  for  the  opposite  shore,  with  his  four- 
legged  fellow  traveller,  and  three  bipeds,  who  were  smoking  segars. 


IT  is  right  pleasant  and  joyous  to  see  the  number  of  juvenile 
patriots  who  are  taken  forth  into  the  country,  (whose  glories  for 
the  first  time,  perhaps,  are  shed  upon  their  town-addicted  eyes,) 
on  the  great  national  holiday.  To  them,  the  flaunting  honors  of 
the  landscape  have  a  new  beauty,  and  a  joyous  meaning ;  the 
sun  hangs  above  them  like  a  great  ball  of  fire  in  the  sky ;  the 
waters  wear  a  glittering  sheen  ;  and  the  wide  moving  pulse  of 
life  beats  with  a  universal  thrill  of  happiness  to  them.  I  could 
not  but  note  the  number  of  urchins  in  the  steamer,  whom  their 
*  paternal  derivatives'  were  guiding  around,  and  showing  to  their 
vision  at  least,  '  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and  the  glory  of 
them.'  

WELL,  to  those  who  are  disposed  to  glean  philosophy  from 
the  mayhap  less  noticeable  objects  of  this  busy  world,  there  are 


216  OLLAPODIANA. 

few  sights  more  lovely  than  childhood.  The  little  cherub  who 
now  sits  at  my  knee,  and  tries,  with  tiny  effort,  to  clutch  the- 
quill  with  which  I  am  playing  for  you,  good  reader  ;  whose  ca 
pricious  taste,  varying  from  ink-stand  to  paper,  and  from  that  to 
books,  and  every  other  portable  thing — all  '  moveables  that  I 
could  tell  you  of'  —  he  has  in  his  little  person  those  elements 
which  constitute  both  the  freshness  of  our  sublunary  mortality, 
and  that  glorious  immortality  which  the  mortal  shall  yet  put  on. 
Gazing  upon  his  fair  young  brow,  his  peach-like  cheek,  and  the 
depths  of  those  violet  eyes,  I  feel  myself  rejuvenated.  That 
which  bothered  Nicodemus,  is  no  marvel  to  me.  I  feel  that  I 
have  a  new  existence ;  nor  can  I  dispel  the  illusion.  It  is  harder, 
indeed,  to  believe  that  he  will  ever  be  what  I  am,  than  that  I  am 
otherwise  than  he  is  now.  I  can  not  imagine  that  he  will  ever 
become  a  pilosus  adult,  with  harvests  for  the  razor  on  that  downy 
chin.  Will  those  golden  locks  become  the  brown  auburn  ? 
Will  that  forehead  rise  as  a  varied  and  shade-changing  record  of 
pleasure  or  care  ?  Will  the  classic  little  lips,  now  colored  as  by 
the  radiance  of  a  ruby,  ever  be  fitfully  bitten  in  the  glow  of  liter 
ary  composition? — and  will  those  sun-bright  locks,  which  hang 
about  his  temples  like  the  soft  lining  of  a  summer  cloud,  become 
meshes  where  hurried  fingers  shall  thread  themselves  in  play  ? 
By  the  mass,  I  can  not  tell.  But  this  I  know.  That  which 
hath  been,  shall  be :  the  lot  of  manhood,  if  he  live,  will  be  upon 
him ;  the  charm,  the  obstacle,  the  triumphant  fever  ;  the  glory,  the 
success,  the  far-reaching  thoughts, 

*  That  make  them  eagle  wings 
To  pierce  the  unborn  years.' 

I  might  '  prattle  out  of  reason,'  and  fancy  what,  in  defiance  of 
precedent  furnished  by  propinquity  of  blood,  he  possibly  might 
be ;  an  aldermanic  personage,  redolent  of  wines  and  soup ; 
goodly  in  visage,  benevolent  in  act,  but  strict  in  justice.  I  might 
fancy  him  with  a  most  voluminous  periphery,  and  a  laugh  that 
shakes  the  diaphragm,  from  the  imo  pectore  to  the  vast  circumfer 
ence  of  the  outer  man.  These  things  may  be  imagined,  but  not 
believed.  Yet  it  is  with  others  as  with  ourselves :  *  We  know 
what  they  are,  but  not  what  they  may  be.'  Time  adds  to  the 
novel  thoughts  of  the  child,  the  tricks  and  joyance  of  the  urchin ; 
the  glow  of  increasing  years,  the  passion  of  the  swelling  heart, 
when  experience  seems  to  school  its  energies.  But  in  the  flush 
of  young  existence,  I  can  compare  a  child,  the  pride  and  delight 
of  its  mother  and  its  kindred,  to  nothing  else  on  earth,  of  its  own 
form  or  image.  It  is  like  a  young  and  beautiful  bird  5  heard, 


OLLAPODIANA.  217 

perhaps,  for  once,  in  the  days  of  our  juvenescence,  and  remem 
bered  ever  after,  though  never  seen  again.  Its  thoughts,  like  the 
rainbow-colored  messenger  discoursed  of  in  the  poetic  entomol 
ogy  of  La  Martine : 

4  BORN  with  the  spring,  and  with  the  roses  dying  — 
Through  the  clear  sky  on  Zephyr's  pinions  sailing ; 

On  the  young  flowret's  open  bosom  lying  — 
Perfume,  and  light,  and  the  blue  air  inhaling ; 

Shaking  the  thin  dust  from  its  wings,  and  fleeing, 
And  soaring  like  a  breath  in  boundless  heaven  : 

How  like  Desire,  to  which  no  rest  is  given ! 

Which  still  uneasy,  rifling  every  treasure, 

Returns  at  last  above,  to  seek  for  purer  pleasure.' 


IN  truth,  I  do  especially  affect  that  delightful  period  in  the  life 
of  every  descendant  of  old  Fig  Leaves,  in  Eden,  which  may 
truly  be  called  the  April  of  the  heart.  How  sweet  are  its  smiles  ! 
And  on  the  face  of  babyhood,  '  the  tears,'  to  use  the  dainty  term 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  '  come  dropping  down  like  raine  in  ye  sun 
shine,  and  no  heed  being  taken  to  wype  them,  they  hang  upon 
the  cheekes  and  lippes,  as  upon  cherries  which  the  dropping  tree 
bedeweth.'  Halcyon  season  !  Its  pure  thoughts  and  rich  emo 
tions  come  and  go,  like  the  painted  waftage  of  a  morning  cloud ; 
or  most  like  that  fulness  of  pearls  which  may  be  shaken  from  the 
matin  spray.  The  night,  to  such,  comes  with  its  vesper  hush 
and  stillness,  like  the  shadow  of  a  shade.  Sorrow  is  transient, 
and  Hope  ever  new.  Sabbath  of  the  soul,  fresh  from  its  GOD  T 
To  the  vision  of  these,  how  brightly  the  leaves  move,  and  the 
breeze-crisped  waters  quiver  !  How  their  quick  pulses  bound, 
in  the  newness  of  existence,  at  that  which  is  ancient  and  dis 
dained  of  the  common  eye  !  To  them,  every  color  is  prismatic, 
and  wears  the  hue  of  Eden.  With  thoughts  like  these,  however 
tin-novel,  I  apostrophize  *  MY  BOY  :' 

THOU  hast  a  fair  unsullied  cheek, 

A  clear  and  dreaming  eye, 
Whose  bright  and  winning  glances  speak 

Of  life's  first  revelry  ; 
And  on  thy  brow  no  look  of  care 
Comes  like  a  cloud,  to  cast  a  shadow  there. 

In  feeling's  early  freshness  blest, 

Thy  wants  and  wishes  few  : 
Rich  hopes  are  garnered  in  thy  breast, 

As  summer's  morning  dew 
Is  found,  like  diamonds,  in  the  rose, 
Nestling,  mid  folded  leaves,  in  sweet  repose. 


218  OLLAPODIANA. 

Keep  thus,  in  love,  the  heritage 
Of  thy  ephemeral  spring  ; 

Keep  its  pure  thoughts,  till  after  age 
Weigh  down  thy  spirit's  wing  ; 

Keep  the  warm  heart,  the  hate  of  sin, 

And  heavenly  peace  will  on  thy  soul  break  in. 

And  when  the  even-song  of  years 
Brings  in  its  shadowy  train 

The  record  of  life's  hopes  and  fears, 
Let  it  not  be  in  vain, 

That  backward  on  existence  thou  canst  look, 

As  on  a  pictured  page  or  pleasant  book. 


IN  the  wonder  which  we  feel  as  to  children  growing  old,  we 
are  apt  to  associate  ourselves  with  them.  When  one  who,  in  the 
hey-dey/)f  his  blood,  and  before  the  glow  of  the  purpureum 
lumen  of  his  '  bettermost  hours'  has  begun  to  diminish,  is  led  to 
regard  (and  to  hear,  beside,  for  the  fact  rings  often  at  his  auricu 
lar  portals)  that  a  vital  extract  is  extant,  he  wonders  if  that 
4  embryon  atom'  will  ever  come  to  denominate  the  agent  of  his 
being  as  *  the  old  gentleman !'  Of  course,  it  must  be  impossible. 
Yet  *  there  is  no  mistake  on  some  points.'  In  the  course  of  his 
travels,  Old  Time  effects  many  a  marvel ;  but  he  pushes  on  with 
his  agricultural  implement,  and  streaming  forelock ;  (nobody 
1  does  him  proud,'  and  he  disdains  the  toupee,)  until  his  oldest 
friends  are  metamorphosed,  and  his  youngest  begin  to  experience 
how  'tempora  mutantur,  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis.1  This  reminds 
me  of  a  song,  which  I  like  amazingly,  because  it  contains  such  a 
mingling  of  truth,  beauty,  and  melody  : 

I  OFTEN  think  each  tottering  form 

That  limps  along  in  life's  decline, 
Once  bore  a  heart  as  young,  as  warm, 

As  full  of  idle  thoughts  as  MINE  ! 

And  each  has  had  his  dream  of  joy, 

His  own  unequalled,  pure  romance ; 
Commencing,  when  the  blushing  boy 

First  thrills  at  lovely  woman's  glance. 

And  each  could  tell  his  tale  of  youth  — 
Would  think  its  scenes  of  love  evince 

More  passion,  more  unearthly  truth, 
Than  any  tale,  before  or  since. 

Yes !  they  could  tell  of  tender  lays 
At  midnight  penned,  in  classic  shades, 

Of  days  more  bright  than  modern  days — 
Of  maids  more  fair  than  living  maids. 


OLLAPODIANA.  219 

Of  whispers  in  a  willing  ear, 

Of  kisses  on  a  blushing  cheek  — 
Each  kiss,  each  whisper,  far  too  dear 

For  modern  lips  to  give  or  speak. 

Of  prospects,  too,  untimely  crossed, 

Of  passion  slighted  or  betrayed  — 
Of  kindred  spirits  early  lost, 

And  buds  that  blossomed  but  to  fade. 

Of  beaming  eyes,  and  tresses  gay, 

Elastic  form  and  noble  brow, 
And  charms  —  that  all  have  passed  away, 

And  left  them — what  we  see  them  now! 

And  is  it  thus  ! — is  human  love 

So  very  light  and  frail  a  thing ! 
And  must  Youth's  brightest  visions  move 

For  ever  on  Time's  restless  wing  ? 

Must  all  the  eyes  that  still  are  bright, 

And  all  the  lips  that  talk  of  bliss, 
And  all  the  forms  so  fair  to  sight, 

Hereafter  only  come  to  this  ? 

Then  what  are  Love's  best  visions  worth, 
If  we  at  length  must  lose  them  thus  ? 

If  all  we  value  most  on  earth, 

Ere  long  must  fade  away  from  us  ? 

If  that  one  being  whom  we  take 

From  all  the  world,  and  still  recur 
To  all  she  said,  and  for  her  sake 

Feel  far  from  joy,  when  far  from  her. 

If  that  one  form  which  we  adore, 
From  youth  to  age,  in  bliss  or  pain, 

Soon  withers  and  is  seen  no  more  — 
Why  do  we  love — if  love  be  vain? 

In  what  strange  contrast  with  a  picture  like  this,  does  the  beau 
tiful  UHLAND  place  some  of  his  nature-colored  characters  !  How 
sweetly  does  he  draw  the  picture  of  two  devoted  beings,  practis 
ing  palmistry,  with  palm  to  palm,  and  uttering  a  world  of  downy 
nonsense  beneath  the  rolling  moon  : 

«  IN  a  garden  fair  were  roaming, 

Two  lovers,  hand  in  hand  ; 
Two  pale  and  shadowy  creatures, 
They  sat  in  that  flowery  land. 

On  the  lips,  they  kissed  each  other, 

On  the  cheeks  so  full  and  smooth ; 
They  were  wrapt  in  close  embracings  — 

They  were  warm  in  the  flush  of  youth.' 


220  OLLAPODIANA. 

These  are  very  apt  verses  to  be  made  directly  out  of  a  man's 
head,  are  n't  they  ?  How  the  author  must  have  been  haunted 
with  visions  all 

«  Sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath.' 

I  FORGOT  to  observe,  that  the  postillion  of  whom  I  have  spok 
en,  was  rather  profane.  He  told  a  story  of  his  experience  some 
years  before,  with  a  divine,  who  was  riding  with  him,  on  his  pro 
fessional  seat,  in  the  west,  to  attend  a  '  protracted  meeting,'  '  It 
was  about  'lection  time,'  said  he,  '  and  I  had  just  gi'n  in  my  vote. 
Of  course,  I  was  used  with  hospitality  ;  and  I  was  a  leetle  '  how- 
come-you-so  ?'  as  Miss  Kimball  says  in  her  Tower.  Well  I 
driv  on,  at  an  uncommon  rapid  rate  ;  (that's  a  fact ;)  and  when- 
sumever  I  threw  out  the  mail-bags  at  a  stoppin'  place,  I  replen 
ished  the  inner  individual.  At  last  I  became,  as  the  parson  ob 
served,  '  manifestly  inebriated  ;'  and  he  ondertook  for  to  lecter  me! 
I  said  nothing,  until  he  observed,  or  rather  remarked,  that  *  he 
should  not  be  surprised  if  I  fell  from  my  seat  some  day,  and 
would  be  found  with  my  head  broke,  and  extravagantsated  blood 
on  the  pious  matter.' ' 

'  *  Well,'  says  I,  '  I  should  n't  be  surprised  ;  it  would  be  just 
my  d d  etarnal  luck  !' 

*  He  did  n't  say  no  more  all  the  trip.     I  shot  him  up.' 

'But  the  election' — it  was  inquired  — '  did  you  succeed  in 
that?' 

'  Oh,  yes  ;  and  the  man  that  we  put  in,  made  a  fool  of  himself 
at  Albany,  into  the  Legislature,  and  there  was  a  piece  put  into  a 
book  about  him  a'terwards.' 

*  Ah  ? — what  was  it  ?' 

'  Here  it  is,'  was  the  reply  of  my  gentleman,  as  he  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  worn  fragment  of  a  printed  page. 

*  On  the  first  day  of  the  session,  he  was  enabled  to  utter  the  be 
ginning  of  a  sentence,  which  would  probably  have  had  no  end,  if 
it  had  not  been  cut  short,  as  it  was,  by  the  Speaker.  On  the  presen 
tation  of  some  petitions,  which  he  thought  had  a  bearing  on  his 
favorite  subject,  the  election  by  the  people  of  public  notaries,  in 
spectors  of  beef  and  pork,  sole-leather,  and  staves  and  heading, 
he  got  on  his  legs.     '  When,'  said  he,  '  Mr.  Speaker,  we  consider 
the  march  of  intellect  in  these  united,  as  I  may  say  confederated, 
States,  and  how  the  genius  of  liberty  soars,  in  the  vast  expanse, 
stretching  her  eagle  plumes  from  the  Pacific  Ocean  to  Long  Island 

sound,  gazing  with  eyes  of  fire  upon  the  ruins  of  empires ' 

just  at   which  point  of  aerial   elevation,  the   Speaker  brought 


OLLAPODIANA.  221 

down  the  metaphorical  flight  of  the  genius,  and  that  of  the  aspir 
ing  orator  together,  by  informing  the  latter  that  he  should  be 
happy  to  hear  him  when  in  order,  but  that  there  was  now  no 
question  before  the  House  /'* 

*  What  was  the  name  of  this  man?'  was  a  query  following  this 
eloquent  extract. 

'  Smith,  Sir,  was  his  name ;  Smith,  John  Smith,  of  Smithopolis 
and  surrogate  of  Smith  County.  He  was  the  first  man  in  Smith- 
ville ;  was  a  blacksmith  in  his  youth,  a  goldsmith  a'terwards,  and 
John  Smith  through  all.  A  consistent  man,  Sir  ;  no  change 
with  him  ;  always  upright,  but  always  poor ;  unchanging,  for  he 
had  nothing  to  change  with  !  He  was  a  distinguished  man ;  had 
letters  advertised  in  the  post  office ;  owned  a  blood  horse ; 
led  the  choir  at  church  ;  read  '  the  Declaration'  on  every  Fourth- 
of-July ;  made  all  the  acquaintances  he  could  ;  was  exceedingly 
fussy  on  all  occasions.  In  short,  he  was  a  very  great  man  in  a 
small  way.  His  speech  will  stand  as  a  memorial  of  his  genius, 
when  the  Kaatskills  shall  be  troubled  with  the  mildew  of  time, 
and  the  worms  of  decay  !' 

WELL  —  the  reign  of  autumn,  for  the  present  year,  has  come  ; 
and  there  will  doubtless  be  the  annual  quotations  of  description 
in  the  newspaper  market.  Some  of  it  will  remain  on  first  hands, 
and  the  rest  will  find  a  ready  circulation.  Meditation  will  vent 
itself  upon  apostrophe  ;  poetry  will  be  engendered ;  old  songs 
will  be  re-sung.  It  is,  in  truth,  a  delicious  season,  and  no  one 
can  be  blamed  for  yielding  himself  up  to  its  influences.  Wlien 
the  first  yellow  surges  of  September  sunlight  seem  to  roll  through 
the  atmosphere  ;  when  the  dust  of  the  city  street,  as  you  look  at 
some  stately  carriage,  whose  wheels  are  flashing  toward  the  west, 
seems  rising  around  them  like  an  atmosphere,  colored  betwixt 
the  hue  of  gold  and  crimson :  when  the  mountains  put  on  their 
beautiful  garments,  where  tints  of  the  rainbow  mingle  with  the 
aerial  blue  of  the  sky  ;  when  the  winds  have  a  melancholy  music 
in  their  tone,  and  the  heaven  above  us  is  enrobed  in  surpassing 
purity  and  lustre  ;  then,  the  dwellers  in  great  capitals  may  per 
haps  conceive  of  the  richness  and  fruition  of  the  country  ;  but 
they  cannot  approach  the  reality.  The  harvest  moon  has  waned ; 
the  harvest  home  been  held  ;  the  wheat  is  in  the  garner  ;  the  last 
peaches  hang  blushing  on  the  topmost  branches  where  they  grew ; 
the  fragrant  apples  lie  in  fairy-colored  mounds  beneath  the  or 
chard  trees,  and  the  cheerful  husbandman  whistles  at  the  cider- 

*  SANDS. 


222  OLLAPODIANA. 

press.  As  September  yields  her  withered  sceptre  into  the  grasp 
of  October,  the  hills  begin  to  invest  themselves  in  those  many- 
colored  robes  which  are  the  livery  of  their  new  sovereign.  As 
my  observant  friend,  (a  well-beloved  Epenetus,)  who  hath  dis 
coursed  of  matters  outre-mer,  so  richly  hymns  it,  then  there  comes 

A  MELLOW  richness  on  the  clustered  trees ; 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds, 
Morn,  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing;  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep  crimsoned, 
And  silver  beech,  the  maple  yellow  leaved — 
Where  Autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  way-side  a-weary.     Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves ;  the  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch  hazel ;  while  aloud, 
From  cottage  roofs,  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings. 

To  me,  there  is  nothing  of  that  dark  solemnity  about  the  au 
tumnal  season,  which  it  has  to  the  morbid  or  the  foreboding.  It 
comes,  laden  with  plenty,  and  breathing  of  peace.  There  seems 
a  sweet  monition  in  every  whisper  of  the  gale,  and  the  rustle  of 
every  painted  leaf,  which  may  speak  a  world  of  tranquillity  to  the 
contemplative  mind.  If  there  be  sadness  around  and  within,  it 
is  the  sadness  which  is  cherished,  and  the  gloom  that  purifies  ;  it 
is  that  doubtful  twilight  of  the  heart,  which  is  succeeded  at  last 
by  a  glorious  morning.  We  think  with  the  serene  and  heavenly- 
minded  Malcolm,  of  the  distant,  or  the  departed,  who  have  gone 
before  us  to  lay  down  their  heads  upon  pillows  of  clay,  and  re 
pose  in  the  calm  monotony  of  the  tomb.  Reflection  asserts  her 
sway,  and  the  spirit  expands  into  song : 


I 


Sweet  Sabbath  of  the  Year  ! 

When  evening  lights  decay, 
Thy  parting  steps  methinks  I  hear, 

Steal  from  the  world  away. 

Amid  thy  silent  bowers, 

'T  is  sad  but  sweet  to  dwell, 

Where  falling  leaves  and  fading  flowers 
Around  me  breathe  farewell. 

Along  thy  sun-set  skies, 

Their  glories  melt  in  shade  ; 

And  like  the  things  we  fondly  prize, 
Seem  lovelier  as  they  fade. 


OLLAPODIANA.  223 

A  deep  and  crimson  streak 

The  dying  leaves  disclose, 
As  on  Consumption's  waning  cheek, 

Mid  ruin,  blooms  the  rose. 

The  scene  each  vision  brings 

Of  beauty  in  decay  ; 
Of  fair  and  early-faded  things, 

Too  exquisite  to  stay  ; 

Of  joys  that  come  no  more  ; 

Of  flowers  whose  bloom  is  fled  ; 
Of  farewells  wept  upon  the  shore 

Of  friends  estranged,  or  dead  ! 

Of  all,  that  now  may  seem 
.t;^  To  memory's  tearful  eye 

The  vanished  beauty  of  a  dream, 
O'er  which  we  gaze  and  sigh  ! 

AND  now,  reader,  Benedicite!     '  Hail — and  farewell!' 

Decidedly  thine,  OLLAPOD.. 


NUMBER   TWENTY-ONE. 

December,  1837. 

As  I  was  saying  last  month,  beloved  reader,  that  'I  am 

thine  in  promise,'  or  to  that  purport,  I  have  anchored  myself  in 
myfauteuil,  to  the  end  that  I  may  be  thine  in  fulfilment.  In  our 
conversation  about  the  Kaatskills,  I  omitted  sundry  pertinent  mat 
ters,  with  the  which,  however,  malgre  the  postponement,  I  shall 
not  here  afflict.  Since  that  period,  I  have  for  the  most  part  been 
pent  i'  the  populous  city,  amid  the  wakeful  noises  by  day  thereof, 
and  by  night  the  calm  security  of  the  streets  thereof.  I  affect 
the  supernatural  bawl  of  the  watchman,  as  it  rings  up  to  my  pil 
low  ;  I  love  the  serenade  which  the  neighboring  lover  sings  to  his 
fair,  and  of  which  I  get  the  good  as  well  as  herself;  I  like  to  see 
the  straggling  cloud  go  floating  over  the  slumbering  town  at  mid 
night,  with  the  moon  silvering  its  edge ;  or  mayhap  to  note  thP 
sheen  of  a  star  greeting  the  vision  over  a  chimney-pot.  All  these 
have  charms  for  my  eye  and  ear ;  I  seem  to  see  holy  sights  and 
shapes  in  the  firmament ;  the  winds  come  and  go  on  their  circuits, 
unknowing  how  many  brows  they  fan ;  and  at  times  they  hush  a 
whole  metropolis  to  silence,  insomuch  that  its  wide  boundary 
scarce  produces  so  much  noise  '  as  doth  a  chestnut  in  a  farmer's 
fire.' 


224  OLLAPODIANA. 

BY-THE-BY,  when  the  sun  begins  to  set  at  right  declensions, 
and  make  his  winter  arches,  I  always  think  of  the  roaring  fires  in  the 
domicil  of  the  rural  husbandman,  with  feelings  akin  to  envy.  Ye 
who  toast  your  heels  by  anthracite  ;  who  survey  the  meagre  *  blue 
blazes'  of  Liverpool  coal,  and  whose  nostrils  take  in  the  dry  odor 
thereof,  being  reminded  thereby  of  those  ever-burning  brimstone 
beds,  where  Apollyon  keeps  his  court,  and  Judas  has  his  resi 
dence  ;  ye,  T  say,  who  have  a  life-long  intimacy  with  these  sorts  of 
fuel,  can  have  but  small  conception  of  a  winter's  fire  in  the  country. 
Far  round  doth  it  illuminate  the  apartment  where  it  rages ;  intolera 
ble  is  proximity  thereunto ;  and  its  *  circle  of  admirers'  is  always 
large,  because  they  can  not  come  a-nigh.  A  pleasant  disdain  is 
felt  for  the  snow  which  whirls  on  whistling  wings  against  the  pane ; 
the  herds  are  huddled  in  their  cotes  secure  ;  and  the  storm  has 
permission  to  mumble  its  belly  full,  and  spit  snow  at  its  pleasure. 
Hugeous  reminiscences  of  delight  come  over  my  spirit,  in  this 
connexion ;  post-school-hours  ;  the  steaming  bowl  of  flip,  or 
those  orthographical  convocations,  where  buxom  maidens  exulted 
in  their  secret  heart,  as  tall  words  were  vociferously  mounted,  in 
correct  emission,  by  greenhorn  swain.  Sleigh-rides  likewise; 
amatory  pressures,  under  skin  of  buffalo  or  bison  ;  long  proces 
sions  through  wintry  villages,  whose  tall  smokes  rose  from  every 
chimney  ;  pillars  of  blue,  standing  upright  in  the  air,  like  columns 
of  sapphire.  Cider,  with  its  acidity  of  remembrance ;  apples,  that 
melted  on  the  tongue,  as  they  descended  toward  the  diaphragm ; 
landscapes  of  snow  ;  and  slides  down  hill ! — not  forgetting  those 
skating  achievements,  which  for  the  time  being  fill  the  mind  with 
such  pride.  All  these  circumstances  and  events,  with  curious  con 
fusion,  hang  in  a  nucleus  about  my  memories  of  a  rural  hearth; 
*but  these  I  passen  by,  with  nameless  numbers  moe.'  Shaks- 
peare  had  a  good  notion  of  the  comforts  to  which  I  refer.  He 
puts  a  lovely  sentiment  into  the  mouth  of*  King  Richard  II., 
when  he  causes  him  to  utter  to  the  royal  lady  this  tender  lan 
guage  : 

'  GOOD  sometimes  queen,  prepare  thee  hence  for  France : 
Think  I  an*  dead  ;  and  that  from  me  thou  tak'st, 
As  from  my  death-bed,  my  last  living  leave. 
In  winter's  tedious  nights,  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks ;  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Ofwoful  ages,  long  ago  betid; 
And  ere  thou  bid  good-night,  to  quit  their  grief, 
Tell  thou  the  lamentable  fall  of  me  !' 


I  HAVE  not,  howbeit,  reader,  as  might  be  inferred  from  what 
has  been  herein  before  written,  spent  all  the  mean  season  spoken 


OLLAPODIANA.  225 

of,  in  the  busy  capital.  I  have  made,  with  household  appurten 
ances,  and  delights,  and  responsibilities,  an  autumnal  tour  or  *  ex 
crescence'  into  the  country,  round  about  the  Empire  Town. 
Quotidian  columns  have  borne  the  register  thereof;  hence  Be 
nevolence  prompt  to  crucify  farther  infliction.  The  landscapes 
surveyed  were  beautiful  ;  though  it  may  be  said  of  the  eminences, 
as  Mr.  William  Lackaday  observes  in  the  play,  of  his  boy-seen 
uplands  :  '  Them  there  hills  was  n't  clothed  with  much  werder.' 

How  many  steam-boat  accidents  are  occurring  constantly! 
One  of  late  astonished  the  peaceful  Delaware.  But  it  did  one 
good  act.  The  explosion  blew  away  a  piece  of  very  bad  ortho 
graphy  in  the  cabin  of  one  of  those  craft  which  ply  between  Phil 
adelphia  and  Camden.  Perilous  voyages  do  they  make,  indeed. 
Nurses  with  their  blooming  charges,  and  who  have  never  been 
to  sea,  embark  in  them  to  behold  the  wonders  of  the  deep  !  The 
disaster  I  speak  of  arose  from  that  which  made  the  angels  fall. 
'T  was  curst  ambition.  One  boat  was  going  several  inches  ahead  of 
another,  and  urged  its  engine  to  the  rate  of  at  least  fifty  miles  the 
hour.  Rivalry  was  awakened ;  the  captain  of  the  hapless  craft 
yelled  to  his  assistant :  '  Josey,  we  '11  have  a  race  with  that  t'other 
imperent  boat !  Put  that  other  stick  of  wood  into  the  furnace  ! 
My  pride  is  elewated.  Nevermind  the  expense  this  time  !' 

The  command  was  given  ;  the  boiler  collapsed  ;  and  ambition 
was  ended  !  The  orthography  blown  from  the  steamer  was 
this: 

4  No  smoking  aloud  in  the  cabing  !' 

This  was  an  injunction  obeyed  per  force,  for  it  could  not  be 
broken.*  It  specified  tacit  fumigation  : 

'Nothing  could  live 

Twixt  that  and  silence  ;' 

and  the  unnecessary  monition  was  no  great  loss,  either  to  luxury 
or  learning.  

LET  me  here  register  a  letter  which  I  have  received  from  the 


*  APROPOS  of  this  ''supererogatory  and  adscititious'  prohibition.  The  small 
steamers  which  ply  on  the  beautiful  Connecticut,  above  the  ancient  fortification 
of  ( Goed  Hoop,'  renowned  in  KNICKERBOCKER'S  veracious  history,  and  now 
known  as  c  Dutch  Point,'  have  but  one  paddle-wheel,  which  is  placed  some  six  or 
eight  feet  astern.  The  voyager  in  these  petty  craft  is  forcibly  struck  with  the 
necessity  of  obeying  a  printed  order,  conspicuously  posted  :  (No  smoking  abaft  the 
wheel /'  And  those  who  watch  from  the  shore  the  locomotive  column  of  spray, 
(like  the  <  pillar  of  cloud  by  day'  that  concealed  the  Israelites,)  which  hides  the 
boat  from  view,  on  its  upward  passage,  must  also  be  of  opinion  that  his  <  pipe* 
would  be  soon  '  put  out,'  who  should  attempt  to  smoke  in  so  moist  a  region. 

15 


226  OLLAPODIANA. 

Jehu  who  voted  for  Smith,  of  Smithopolis.  He  conveys  several 
curious  sentiments  ;  and  among  other  matters,  records  the  demise 
of  the  person  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  a  lecture  : 

•  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  'November  the  5th,  1837. 

4 1  have  seen  a  piece  which  you  made  and  put  into  a  perryoge  published 
down  into  the  city  of  New  York,  to  which  I  am  a-going  to  indict  a  reply. 
My  indictment  will  be  short,  as  some  of  the  parties  is  not  present  to  which 
you  have  been  allusive.  But  with  respect  of  that  there  diwine  person  you 
spoke  of,  I  am  sorry  to  remark,  that  he  is  uncommonly  dead,  and  wont 
never  give  no  more  lectures.  He  was  so  onfortnight  as  to  bu'st  a  blood 
vessel  at  a  pertracted  meeting  ;  and  I  ha  n't  hearn  nothing  onto  him  sence. 
His  motives  was  probable  good  ;  but  in  delivering  on  'em,  it  struck  me  for 
cibly  that  he  proximoted  to  the  sassy.  However,  I  never  reserves  ill  will, 
not  ag'inst  nobody  ;  and  I  authorize  you  to  put  this  into  printing,  ef'so  be 
that  you  deem  it  useful.  That's  what  Smith  used  to  say,  when  he  pub 
lished  his  self-nominations  in  the  newspapers,  that  a  man  with  a  horn  (they 
tell  me  that  he  has  a  very  large  circle  of  kindred)  used  to  ride  post  about, 
and  distribit. 

4  In  the  sincere  congratulation  that  there  has  not  nothing  been  said  in 
this  communication  unproper  for  the  public  ear,  and  for  giving  you  the  de 
scriptions  of  the  rackets,  and  other  messuages  respecting  me,  which  you 
deeded  to  the  public,  I  remain  yours  until  death  do  us  part. 

*  Mr.  OLLAPOD,  M.  D.'  '  POST  TILLION. 

Now  there  is  no  finding  fault  with  a  correspondent  of  this  de 
scription.  Plain,  unadorned,  he  gives  his  thoughts  the  drapery 
of  ink — dresses  them  in  black — and  there  they  stand,  ('what  is 
written  remains,')  evidences  at  once  of  his  frankness  and  his  eru 
dition.  To  me,  such  documents,  though  light,  and  perhaps  un 
palatable  to  those  who  prefer  the  heavier  condiments  of  literature, 
form  the  cream  or  the  dessert  of  life's  plenteous  table. 

TALKING  of  desserts — by  which  (whisper)  I  don't  mean  the 
boundless  contiguity  of  western  wildernesses,  nor  the  sandy 
bounds  of  Zahara,  but  the  after-glories  of  a  dinner  —  I  have  of 
late  arrived  at  some  curious  embellishments  of  delicacies,  on  the 
part  of  those  who  are  bent  upon  improving  the  English  language, 
at  all  hazards ;  upon  extending  it  to  the  utmost  latitude  of  dainty 
expression  and  culture.  The  Astor  House,  I  learn,  at  its  La- 
,  dies'  Ordinary,  has  furnished  forth  some  glorious  specimens  of 
^English  improved.  '  Sir,'  said  an  exquisite,  desirous  of  parta 
king  a  certain  delicacy  for  himself  and  his  fair : 

*  Have  you  at  present  any  of  the  chastised  idiot-brother  T 

1  Ha  n't  seen  no  relations  of  your  'n  here  to-day,'  murmured 
the  waiter,  '  with  an  imperturbable  and  '  furtive'  smile.' 

*  Don't  be  impertinent,  fellow  !'  was  the  reply  ;  '  I  mean  some 
thing  to  eat !' 

'  If  you  want  to  eat  anything  in  the  idiot  line,'  replied  the  ser- 


OLLAPODIANA.  227 

vant,  aside,  as  his  inquisitor  fingered  his  mustache,  '  I  guess 
you  'd  better  put  some  butter  on  your  hair,  and  swallow  yourself1' 
And  here  the  sacrilegious  usher  of  sauces  and  glasses  indulged 
in  a  half-suppressed  guffaw. 

'  Dar'  say  you  consider  that  funny,  my  short  help,'  said  the 
inquirer  ;  '  but  what  I  want  is  what  you  call  whipped-syllabub. 
Heaven  help  your  ignorance  !' 

The  requisite  was  handed — the  exquisite  appeased.  But  his 
quiet  was  brief.  Calling  to  him  the  same  locomotive  assistance, 
he  inquired : 

'  Now,  individual,  I  want  some  sacrificed-threshed-indigent-wil- 
liams.  Have  you  got  any  ?' 

1  Not  one,  upon  my  soul,  your  honor ;  that  is,  if  you  mean 
turnips.' 

*  Turnips  !   curse  turnips  !  you  double-distilled  Vandal ;  you 
Goth — you  Visigoth  !     I  mean,  have  you  got  any  roasted  whip- 
poor-wills  ?' 

*  Holy  Paul !'  said  a  Hibernian  '  help,'  who  had  drawn  anigh, 
attracted  by  the  discussion ;  '  in  the  name  of  the  Virgin,  what  is 
them  V 

Just  at  this  juncture,  the  eaves-dropping  by-stander  who  fur 
nishes  the  mem.  of  this,  came  away,  leaving  the  emerald  son  — 
more  verdant  to  look  at  than  his  native  isle — staring  as  if  in  a  fit 
of  astronomy,  in  eclipse-time. 

ONE  of  my  autumnal  recreations,  good  my  reader,  is  hunting. 
I  pull  a  most  fatal  trigger.  Venerie  delighteth  me,  when  the  day 
is  good  and  the  game  abundant.  I  love  (Heaven  forgive  me  !)  to 
bring  down  the  squirrel,  with  the  half-munched  chestnut  in  his  teeth, 
what  time  his  bushy  tail,  no  longer  waving  in  triumph  over  his 
back,  as  he  bounds  from  limb  to  limb,  quivers  in  articulo  mortis. 
I  confess  me  none  of  your  cockney  venators.  Some  of  these 
I  have  seen  place  the  deadly  muzzle  of  a  double-barrel  rifle  at 
the  unsuspecting  tail  of  a  wren,  while  the  proximity  of  metal  and 
feathers  was  less  than  an  inch  ;  and  when  they  fired,  they  plung 
ed  back  some  several  yards,  overcome  with  horror,  though  t 
bird  had  flown  without  injury,  save  indeed  some  blacken 
down,  in  extremis ;  a  trifle,  with  life  safe,  and  the  world  before 
her. 

The  poetry  of  gunpowder  is  in  making  it  tell.  To  go  out  when 
the  woods  are  so  beautiful  that  you  deem  a  score  of  dying  dol 
phins  hang  on  every  tree, 

*  When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill;' 


228  OLLAPODIANA. 

to  hear  the  delicate  tread  of  the  game  on  the  leaves,  rustling  amid 
the  murmurs  of  solemn  winds,  as  the  westering  sun  scampers 
down  the  west,  with  a  face  as  red  as  if  he  had  disgraced  the  solar 
family  by  some  misdemeanor ;  and  then,  in  some  thick  recess  of 
passing  foliage,  and  innumerous  boughs,  then  and  there  to  bore 
winged  fowl,  and  my  gentleman  quadrupeds  of  the  sylvan  fast 
ness,  with  cold  lead,  is  exhilarating.  All  kinds  of  volant  things 
that  wing  the  autumn  air  ;  all  sorts  of  movers  on  four  legs  ;  to 
make  these  succumb  to  the  behests  of  minerals,  deadly  salts,  and 
a  percussion  cap  to  set  them  on,  is  a  kind  of  great  glory  in  a  very 
small  way.  I  miss  in  my  excursions  of  this  nature,  the  kind  of 
sport  which  I  fancy  they  who  course  the  fields  and  glades  of 
England  must  peculiarly  enjoy ;  hare-hunting,  namely.  '  The 
ancients,'  saith  my  choice  l  Elia,'  '  must  have  loved  hares.  Else 
why  adopt  the  word  lepores,  (obviously  from  lepus,)  but  from 
some  subtle  analogy  between  the  delicate  flavor  of  the  latter,  and 
the  finer  relishes  of  wit  in  what  we  most  poorly  translate  pleas 
antries.  The  fine  madnesses  of  the  poet  are  the  very  decoction 
of  his  diet.  Thence  is  he  hare-brained.  Haram-scarum  is  a 
libellous,  unfounded  phrase,  of  modern  usage.  'T  is  true  the 
hare  is  the  most  circumspect  of  animals,  sleeping  with  her  eyes 
open.  Her  ears,  ever  erect,  keep  them  in  that  wholesome  exer 
cise,  which  conduces  them  to  form  the  very  tit-bit  of  the  admirers 
of  this  noble  animal.  Noble  will  I  call  her,  in  spite  of  her  de 
tractors,  who  from  occasional  demonstrations  of  the  principle  of 
self-preservation  (common  to  animals,)  infer  in  her  a  defect  of 
heroism.  Half  a  hundred  horsemen,  with  thrice  the  number  of 
dogs,  scour  the  country  in  pursuit  of  puss,  across  three  counties ; 
and  because  the  well-flavored  beast,  weighing  the  odds,  is  willing 
to  evade  the  hue  and  cry,  with  her  delicate  ears  shrinking  per 
chance  from  discord,  comes  the  grave  naturalist,  Linna3us,  per 
chance,  or  BufFon,  and  gravely  sets  down  the  hare  as  —  a  timid 
animal.  Why,  Achilles,  or  Bully  Dawson,  would  have  declined 
the  preposterous  combat!'  This  is  speaking  sooth,  and  vindi 
cates  the  fame  of  that  class  of  tremulous  tenants  of  rural  haunts, 
rhose  ears,  most  unhappily,  are  sometimes  longer  than  their  lives. 

SOMETIMES  I  surmount  my  pony,  and  traverse  for  miles  the 
banks  of  the  Schuykill ;  moving,  now  fast,  now  slow,  as  humor 
prompts,  or  clouds  portend.  The  city  fades  behind  me ;  the 
beautiful  eminence  of  Fairmount,  its  spouting  fountains,  its  stat 
ues  in  the  many-colored  shade  ;  the  sheen  of  the  river ;  the  trel- 
ised  pavilions  that  hang  on  its  side  ;  the  hum  of  waters,  or  the 
cheerings  of  some  regatta,  mingle  with  far  obscurity  and  airy 


OL  LA  POD  I  ANA. 

nothing ;  and  then,  as  I  ride,  I  sing  the  song  of  Anacreon  Little, 
laying  every  tone  to  my  heart,  like  a  treasure  and  a  spell : 

4  AI.ONG  the  Schuykill  a  wanderer  was  roving, 
And  dear  were  its  flowery  banks  to  his  eye  ; 
(I  am  bounding  along--— at  a  good  rate  am  moving  — 
I  have  lost  the  last  lines  —  unregained,  if  I  try.') 

Thus  I  murder  the  post-meridian  hours,  when  the  weather-office 
is  propitious,  and  its  clerks  attentive. 

BY-THE-WAY,  how  often  have  I  pondered  on  the  extreme  sur 
prise  experienced  by  Balaam,  of  Old  Testament  memory,  when  he 
rode  out  one  day  on  business.  His  meditations  were  most  unex 
pectedly  interrupted  by  the  beast  he  rode  ;  and  he  was  immense 
ly  astounded,  when  he  found  out  the  garrulity  of  the  animal. 
True  to  her  sex,  (for  she  was  of  the  tender  gender,)  she  com 
menced  a  few  sentences  of  small-talk,  greatly  to  his  dismay. 
And  who  could  marvel  ?  What  man  but  would  listen,  auribus 
erectis,  when  he  ascertained  that  his  own  ass  was  opening  a  con 
versation  with  him  ?  'T  was  thus  with  Balaam.  He  was  well 
nigh  demented.  He  pommelled  his  beast  with  great  vehemence ; 
but  she  turned  her  head  to  him,  and  said  in  the  Hebrew  dialect: 
'No  Go." 

Is  it  not  wonderful,  that  those  who  are  skilled  in  biblical  his 
tory,  who  weigh  evidence  by  the  ounce,  and  inference  by  the 
pound,  is  it  not  a  marvel,  that  they  have  never  traced  the  obsti 
nacy  of  this  four-footed  individual  to  the  right  motives  ?  She 
was,  in  sooth,  the  great  progenitress  of  Animal  Magnetism;  and 
she  presented,  in  her  own  person,  the  first  instance  of  clairvoyance 
on  record,  either  in  prose  or  rhyme.  It  was  at  her  hinder  feet 
that  MESMER  sat,  in  thought,  and  caught  the  inspiration  of  his 
science.  Balaam  sat  on  her  patient  back,  burdened  her  hal 
lowed  vertebras,  nor  knew  how  much  wisdom  he  bestrode. 
Blinded  mortal !  He  looked  ahead  for  the  cause  of  his  deten 
tion.  He  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  push  on  ;  and  in 
the  Egyptian  obliquity  of  his  heart,  he  *  whaled'  his  ass  to  a  de-,  ^ 
gree.  It  did  no  good  ;  on  the  contrary,  't  was  quite  the  reversed 
The  ass  and  the  angel  were  looking  steadfastly  at  each  other ; 
but  Balaam  saw  but  one  of  the  parties.  He  noted  not  the  glit 
tering  and  glorious  obstacle  that  stopped  the  narrow  way.  The 
loose  and  expressionless  lips  of  his  ass  spoke  like  a  book ;  the 
clairvoyance  was  established  ;  but  the  effect  was  slow.  Hence 
forth,  when  the  magnetic  science  is  discussed,  honor  its  foundress. 
Render  unto  that  ass  the  things  which  are  asses'. 


230  OLLAPODIANA. 

I  HAVE  achieved  a  victory  which  should  fire  the  heart  of  any- 
tasteful  bibliomaniac.  I  stand  seized  of  Lamb.  Understand  rne, 
reader,  t'  is  no  juvenile  mutton,  whereof  I  am  possessed ;  not 
adolescent  merino,  or  embryo  ram.  By  no  manner  of  means ; 
contrariwise,  it  is  TALFOURD'S  brief  memoir,  and  a  most  succu 
lent  correspondence,  by  the  author  of  '  ELIA.'  'T  is  a  thing 
over  which  a  father  may  waken  his  boy,  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  (being  yet  unmoved  bedward,)  by  a  multitudinous  guf 
faw.  Rosy  slumber,  ruptured  by  obstreperous  laughter ;  but  ah  ! 
how  decidedly  unavoidable  ! 

Yes ;  I  write  myself  proprietor  for  the  nonce  of  a  London 
edition.  My  name  is  written  in  a  Book  of  the  Life  of  Lamb. 
Most  hugeously  do  I  relish  his  quaint  conceits,  and  those  dainty 
sentences,  the  fashioning  whereof  came  to  him  unbidden,  from 
spirits  of  the  olden  time,  bending  from  the  clouds  of  fame.  (By- 
the-by,  what  an  unconscionable  dog  was  Ossian  !  He  always 
kept  a  score  or  two  of  heroes,  sitting  half-dressed  on  cold  clouds, 
making  speeches.  'T  was  most  unkind  of  him.  But  he  lived 
in  a  rude  age.)  Lamb  was  one  of  those  precious  few  of  whom 
the  world  is  not  worthy.  He  wrote  from  the  impulses  of  a  noble 
heart,  guided  to  new  expression  by  a  mind  clear  as  the  brook  of 
Siloa,  that  flowed  by  the  oracles  of  GOD.  He  was  not  one  of 
your  persons  who  are  dignified  by  the  phrase  '  all  heart,'  for  he 
had  a  prolific  brain,  which  all-hearted  people  generally  lack.  Of 
course,  he  disciplined  himself  betwixt  a  desk  at  the  India-House, 
and  his  social  hours,  or  studious  ;  but  what  golden  fruitage  sprang 
therefrom  !  None  of  your  crude  sentences,  half  formed,  unlicked, 
unpolished  ;  but  full  of  meaning ;  succinct  to  the  eye,  and  har 
monious  to  the  ear.  There  is  a  light  from  his  pen,  which  can 
illumine  the  saddest  hour.  He  went  forth  to  amuse  and  en 
lighten,  as  the  sun  gets  up  in  the  morning  to  cheer  the  world, 
*  with  all  his  fires  and  travelling  glories  round  him.'  Essayist  in 
comparable  !  How  would  he  have  looked  writing  a  prize-tale 
for  the  horror-mongers ! 

IN  respect  of  these  latter  things,  how  many  double-distilled 
atrocities  of  that  kind  are  now  and  then  committed  at  this  day ! 
They  must  be  filled  with  blood  and  murder  ;  piracy,  thieving,  vil- 
lany  of  all  sorts  must  be  thrown  in,  to  make  the  mixture  '  slab 
and  good,'  This  is  the  result  of  the  ten  thousand  pages  of  trash, 
which  the  want  of  a  copy-right  law  entails  upon  us  from  Eng 
land.  Improbability  is  the  first  ingredient,  to  which  assassina 
tion,  seduction,  and  all  kinds  of  crime,  must  approximate.  Let 
me  give  a  specimen  : 


OLLAPODIANA.  231 

'THE    FATAL    vow. 

*!T  was  late  in  the  fall  of  18 ,  (convenient  blank  !)  when,  as  the  night 

had  come  on,  on  a  stormy  evening,  a  dreadful  tempest  arose  in  the  west. 
The  lightning  flashed,  the  thunder  faintly  bellowed  lor  a  time  ;  but  soon  the 
lightning  discontinued,  though  the  thunder  moaned  on.  It  was  pitch  dark — 
darkness  Egyptian.  The  sight  was  palsied  and  checked  within  an  inch  of 
the  eye.  At  this  juncture,  two  men  on  horseback  might  have  been  seen,  at 

the  distance  of  half  a  mile  from  the  river ,  riding  through  a  thick  wood. 

One  of  them  was  of  sallow  complexion,  with  huge  black  whiskers  ;  he  rode 
a  horse  of  the  color  called  by  rural  people  '  pumpkin-and-milk,'  gr  cream- 
color,  rather.  In  his  holster  were  two  pistols.  He  wore  a  broad  slouching 
hat,  apparently  unpaid  for.  A  frown,  blacker  considerably  than  hell,  dark 
ened  his  brow.  Turning  to  his  companion,  a  weazen-faced  man,  with  a  red 
head,  mounted  on  what  is  called  a  'calico  mare,'  he  said  : 

*  Well,  Jakarzil,  shall  we  do  the  deed  to-night  ?' 

4  It  would  ill  befit  the  noble  Count  d'Urzillio  de  Belleville,'  said  the  de 
pendant,  '  to  shoot  that  ill-fated  lady  at  the  present  time.  It  would  not 
look  well.' 

'  I  care  not  for  the  looks  !'  replied  the  count,  curling  his  lip,  and  placing 
in  his  sinister  cheek  a  piece  of  tobacco,  '  I  must  have  vengeance  !  If  the 
candle  is  not  at  the  casement,  I  shall  bu'st  the  door.  I  want  revenge  !' 

«TO   BE   CONTINUED.3 

This  is  like  the  modern  tales.  Meditated  butchery,  success 
ful  scoundrelism,  and  other  delectables,  make  up  their  sum.  As 
the  fragment  just  read  may  never  be  concluded,  I  will  mention 
the  fate  of  the  parties.  The  hero  shot  his  grandmother  out  of 
pique,  and  was  hung ;  Jakarzil,  his  man,  is  in  the  penitentiary 
for  horse-stealing.  

SOME  of  my  unpoetical  friends  think  I  have  underrated  the 
Falls  at  Kaatskill.  Heaven  save  the  mark  !  They  have  never 
seen  Niagara,  and  are  therefore  content  with  a  few  grim  rocks, 
the  gate  of  a  mill-dam,  and  grandeur  by  the  gallon ;  for  thus, 
in  a  manner,  is  it  sold.  No  !  Let  these  untravelled  but  clever 
fellows  once  hear  the  roar  that  shakes  Goat-Island,  and  the  re 
gion  round  about ;  see  the  river  that  pours  its  mile-wide  breakers 
down,  and  mark  the  rainbow  smile  !  Ever  thereafter  will  they 
hold  their  peace.  

ONE  or  two  credulous  persons  have  fancied  that  the  sketch  of 
•'  Smith  of  Smithopolis'  was  designed  as  an  imputation  upon  the 
name.  The  said  imputation  is  disdained,  by  these  presents.  I 
have  a  decided  regard  for  that  style  and  title  :  companionship, 
familiarity,  personal  knowledge,  (so  grateful  to  the  inquiring 
rnind,)  are  its  synonyms.  Beside,  I  honor  the  name,  for  sundry 
associations.  Who  has  never  rode  in  a  rail-car,  a  steam-boat,  or 
a  coach,  with  a  person  of  the  name  of  Smith  ?  Or  heard  him 


232  OLLAPODIANA. 

speak  at  a  public  meeting  ?  Or  owed  him  a  trifle  ?  Or  had  a 
trifle  due  from  him,  the  Smith  aforesaid  ?  Nemo  — '  I  undertake 
to  Say' — (in  fact  I  not  only  undertake  this  vocal  enterprise,  but  I 
accomplish  it.)  Aside,  reader,  't  is  a  criticism  on  the  phrase  ; 
which  whoso  uses  when  he  knows  what  he  is  about  to  set  down 
in  palpable  chirography,  is  a  sumph  unqualified  :  Anglice,  one 
of  the  flat  'uns,  named  of  Stulti. 

The  Smiths  are  numerous,  't  is  said.  Grant  it.  Who  pays 
more  post-office  revenue  ?  Who  more  quickly  resents  a  jeer 
upon  the  name  ?  Tell  me  that.  <  Not  Nobody.'  Would  you 
look  for  heroes  ?  The  Smiths  could  supply  them.  For  female 
goodness  and  devotion  ?  The  same,  from  the  same.  For  wit, 
genius,  and  elevated  talent  ?  Vide  Horace  and  James,  of  the 
Addresses,  and  Richard  Penn  ;  the  studious  scholar,  good  law 
yer,  quaint  citizen,  novelist,  poet,  dramatist  —  everything  clever. 

I  HAD  many  more  things  to  say,  courteous  reader ;  but  I  fear, 
from  what  I  have  written,  you  may  augur  a  bore.  Heaven  for- 
fend  !  Consequently,  thine  in  conclusion,  I  write  myself,  hence 
forth,  now,  and  formerly,  OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER   TWENTY. TWO. 

March,  1838. 

A  MONTH  Reader,  or  two  months,  how  fast  they  get  by! 
How  they  'push  along  and  keep  moving!'  With  their  'por- 
tance  to  the  prince  or  the  beggar  —  to  the  monarch  or  the  mau- 
vais  sujet  —  they  sweep  away.  When  one  is  at  his  ease,  and  in 
quiet,  how  imperceptibly  they  glide  !  When  friends  are  looked 
for,  or  home  is  nearing  on  the  wave,  how  melancholy  slow ! 
Time  ambles,  canters,  trots,  walks,  or  halts,  as  it  were,  with 
thousands  at  a  time.  Those  who  wish  his  gait  the  tardiest,  me- 
thinks,  are  those  who  take  their  *  last  stand'  upon  a  scaffold,  and 
await  that  dubious  moment  which  divorces  Spectacle  from  Stran 
gulation.  That  is  a  period  of  which  one  cannot  complain  that  it 
is  dull.  Like  passages  in  modern  novels,  (as  per  booksellers' 
advertisements)  it  is  of  '  thrilling  interest.'  The  only  passenger 
in  the  black  coach  just  bound  for  the  unknown  country  waits  with 
exemplary  patience  for  the  driver,  not  willing  to  leave.  Right  in 
his  premises,  he  comes  to  a  wrong  conclusion.  His  neck  answers 
for  it. 


OLLAPODIANA.  233 

SINCE  I  read  that  curious  piece  of  '  Elia's  on  the  splendors 
of  the  pillory  rather  than  its  disgraces,  I  have  had  some  little 
curiousness  to  meditate  on  that  matter  ;  whether  it  were  possible 
that  one  should  felicitate  himself  on  a  position  of  the  kind ; 
whether  pride  could  be  born  of  pillory  conceptions,  or.  thoughts 
of  grandeur  from  the  gallow-tree.  I  think  they  can.  'Twas  a 
proud  remark  of  the  Earl  Ferrers,  when  on  his  way  to  the  gal 
lows,  in  1796,  when  he  observed  to  his  sheriff,  who  compliment 
ed  him  upon  attracting  so  great  a  concourse  of  people :  *  I  sup 
pose  they  never  saw  a  lord  hanged  before.'  This  incident  should 
be  used  by  some  play-wright  of  modern  times,  and  entitled  '  The 
Earl's  Last  Chuckle.'  This  same  lord,  on  the  day  fixed  for  his 
execution,  was  driven  to  the  gallows  in  his  own  landau,  dressed 
in  sumptuous  garments,  the  choicest  of  his  taste.  Those  who 
demur  from  gibbet  dignity,  should  have  heard  the  courteous  col 
loquies  which  did  ensue  betwixt  him  and  his  sheriff  aforesaid. 
The  latter,  *  seating  himself  by  his  lordship,  politely  observed, 
that  it  gave  him  the  highest  concern  to  wait  upon  him  on  so  mel 
ancholy  an  occasion  :  adding,  that  he  would  do  every  thing  in 
his  power  to  render  his  situation  as  agreeable  as  possible,  and 
hoped  his  lordship  would  impute  it  to  the  necessary  discharge 
of  his  duty.' 

There  are  objects  of  great  interest,  too,  one  might  suppose,  on 
a  scaffold,  as  well  as  in  the  pillory.  Par  example,  in  the  case 
in  question.  '  His  lordship  (by  mistake)  gave  ten  guineas  to  the 
executioner's  assistant,  which  was  immediately  after  demanded 
by  the  master ;  but  the  fellow  refused  to  deliver  it,  and  a  dispute 
ensued,  which  might  have  discomposed  his  lordship.' 

Of  course  it  might.  Perhaps  he  had  been  a  sporting  character. 
Would  he  not  have  felt  some  anxiety  to  settle  the  controversy, 
and  see  fair  play  before  he  went,  so  as  to  die  in  peace  ?  Indubi 
tably.  He  should  have  been  '  spared  that  sight' — but  he  was 
spared,  before  it  ended.  

WELL  —  as  there  is  nothing  too  low  to  be  dignified  by  some 
faint  coloring,  so  there  is  naught  too  high  not  to  be  dimmed.  I 
look  upon  the  moon  as  an  orb  of  pearly  lusture  ;  upon  the  stars 
as  diamonds  and  jewels  ;  yet  ragged  clouds,  like  volant  pauper's 
breeches,  patched  with  yellow,  red,  or  white,  around  their  edges, 
sail  by  the  stars,  and  moon,  and  sun,  smirching  their  beauty,  and 
borrowing  brightness  not  their  own. 

Yet  I  respect  the  moon.  Fair  politician  !  She  changes  when 
she  will.  Impartial  dispenser  of  radiance  *  on  tick ;'  she  gets 
what  she  can,  and  'gives  all  she  gets.  I  honor  the  planet.  Pro- 


234  OLLAPODIANA. 

lific  mother  of  hoaxes  and  sentiment !  Grand  cloud  silver-plater ! 
Meek,  virtuous  Eminence  —  Presence  serene!  Thus  wert  thou 
once  apostrophized,  by  one  now  no  more  : 

O  MOON  !  at  midnight's  contemplative  hour, 
When  placid  slumber  holds  his  noiseless  reign, 
Throbs  my  exulting  heart  to  see  thee  shower 
Thy  streaming  splendors  upon  rock  and  plain : 
From  earth  aloof  my  panting  spirits  soars, 
Communing  with  revolving  worlds  on  high, 
Till,  lost  in  deep  amazement,  forth  it  pours 
Its  hymn  of  praise  to  HIM  who  lit  yon  sky, 
And  gave  to  my  young  gaze  this  wondrous  scenery ! 

O  moon !  aside  the  helmsman  lays  his  chart, 
To  mark  thy  beams  reflected  on  the  sea ; 
And  faithful  mem'ry  on  his  lonely  heart 
Gives  back  the  light  of  childhood's  revelry. 
On  his  lone  pathway  may  the  auspicious  gale 
Propel  the  expanded  canvass  o'er  the  wave : 
Bright  be  the  cynosure  which  lights  his  sail  — 
Nigh  be  the  mighty  arm  outstretched  to  save, 
When  the  blue  waves  run  high,  the  sea  boy  from  the  grave! 

O  moon!  the  sentinel  at  midnight  hour 
Rests  the  dark  vigil  of  his  eye  on  thee, 
And  pours  his  benison  to  that  high  power 
Who  dressed  for  him  that  gorgeous  scenery : 
While  the  bright  beams  their  softer  splendors  wake, 
And  on  his  burnished  casque  and  armor  play, 
He  hears  not  the  light  footstep  in  yon  brake  ; 
His  thoughts  have  wandered  to  his  home  away  — 
His  wife  and  infant  boy  —  are  their  young  bosoms  gay  ? 

O  moon!  on  thee  at  the  lone  hour  of  night 
The  lover  gazes  with  a  swimming  eye! 
And  deems  that  she  to  whom  his  heart  is  plight, 
Gazes  as  fondly  on  yon  glorious  sky  : 
Anon  his  ardent  fancy  seems  to  trace, 
In  the  bright  mirror  of  night's  lonely  hour, 
'  The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace,' 
Which  charmed  his  youthful  eye  in  summer's  bower, 
When  to  his  heart  he  pressed  his  bosom's  dearest  flower. 

Again  he  deems,  in  fancy's  wanton  flight, 
Some  bark  of  pearl  in  beauty  sailing  there  : 
Slow  piloting  its  dubious  path  in  light, 
Through  the  calm  ocean  of  the  evening  air  ! 
Oh !  how  his  bosom  burns  to  tempt  the  gale, 
With  his  own  loved  one,  on  that  azure  sea ; 
With  hope's  soft  zephyr  to  impel  the  sail, 
And  no  obtrusive,  daring  eye  to  see 
His  own  endeared  caress  and  love's  warm  witchery. 

J.  R.  SuTEKMEISTER. 


OLLAPODIANA.  235 

'TWAS  a  new  idea  to  me,  that  conveyed  of  late  by  the  author 
of  Leslie,  surnamed  Norman,  that  the  only  things  you  see,  after 
crossing  the  Atlantic,  which  you  have  seen  before,  are  the  orb 
of  day,  sometimes  vulgarly  called  Phoebus,  or  the  sun,  the  chaste 
Regent  of  the  Night,  or  Luna,  that  green-horns  sometimes  de 
nominate  the  moon,  and  those  jewels  of  heaven  —  *  doubloons  of 
the  celestial  bank,'  as  a  Spanish  poet  calls  them  —  sometimes 
named  stars,  by  plain,  uninitiated  persons.  These,  it  seems,  are 
the  only  old  acquaintances  a  man  meets  abroad.  They  are  not 
to  be  put  by.  A  man  may  curse  his  stars,  indeed,  but  he  can- 
not  cut  them.  As  well  might  the  great  sea  essay  '  to  cast  its 
waters  on  the  burning  Bear,  and  quench  the  guards  of  the  ever- 
fixed  pole.'  Therefore  shall  I  learn  henceforth  yet  more  to  love 
those  dazzling  planets,  fixed  or  errant,  because  in  no  long  time  I 
may  meet  them  in  Philippi.  Precious  then  to  me  will  be  their 
bright  companionship  !  Milky  feelings  will  come  over  me,  as 
I  scrutinize  the  via  lactea,  with  upturned  eyes ;  conscious  will 
be  the  moon ;  inexpressibly  dear  every  glimpse  of  the  lesser 
lights  that  rule  the  night  with  modest  fires.  Without  the  slight 
est  premonitory  symptoms  of  astrology,  and  being  withal  no 
horologe  consulter,  I  yet  do  love  the  stars.  Rich,  rare,  and  lus 
trous,  they  win  my  gaze,  and  look  into  my  soul.  I  have  seen 
them  at  Niagara,  glinting  upon  the  mad  breakers  through  the 
lunar  rainbow,  with  their  perpetual  flashes ;  on  the  big  lakes  of 
the  interior,  as  if  the  calm  waters  were  but  another  sky ;  on  the 
placid  Schuylkill,  when  the  breath  of  clover-fields  came  fresh 
ened  from  the  wave  it  never  wrinkled;  and  I  have  seen  them — 
oh  climax  of  beauty!  —  on  the  *  Grand  Erie  CanawlJ  just  before 
taking  a  berth  in  copartnership  with  bed-bugs  !  Enough  of  stars. 
I  am  waxing  theatrical. 


ONE  word  more,  though,  before  I  dismiss  these  luminaries. 
That  verse  of  Byron's,  wherein  he  compares  the  object  of  some 
early  affection  to  a  star,  dropping  from  its  sphere,  always  struck 
me  as  peculiarly  beautiful.  Look  at  it,  reader,  and  say  so  too  : 

'  I  KNOW  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauty  fade ; 
The  night  that  followed  such  a  morn, 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade. 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last — 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 

Extinguished  —  not  'decayed ; 
As  stars,  that  shoot  along  the  sky, 

Shine  brightest,  when  they  fall  from  high.1 


236  OLLAPODIANA. 

The  same  individual — who  was  a  highly  nice  person  for 
making  apt  pieces  of  metre  out  of  his  head  —  has,  in  the  hand 
somest  manner,  volunteered  his  services  for  the  moon,  at  the 
close  of  the  following  passage  : 

*  I  DO  remember  me,  that  on  a  night  like  this, 
I  stood  beneath  the  Coliseum's  wall 
Mid  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome : 
The  trees  that  grew  along  the  broken  arches, 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin:  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber,  and  more  near, 
From  out  ihe  Cesar's  palace,  came  the  owl's  long  cry, 
And  interruptedly  of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song, 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon!  upon  all  this 
And  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light,  which  softened  down 
The  hoar  austerity  of  rugged  desolation, 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
In  silent  worship.' 

ONE  cannot  write,  by  any  possibility,  with  a  sense  of  pleasure, 
when  his  subject  brings  too  many  things  to  his  recollection,  and 
pours  remembrance  full  upon  the  eye.  I  love  to  go  back  to  the 
moon-light  eves  of  other  years;  and  I  do  confess,  that  the  shim 
mer  of  a  star  over  a  city  chimney ;  the  rustle  of  vines  in  its  garden 
walks ;  or  the  soft  hum  of  a  summer  shower  at  night,  tinkling  on 
a  thousand  shadowy  roofs  around,  and  gurgling  down  the  con 
duits  of  the  eaves  —  those  regular  eaves-droppers  —  can  awaken 
in  me  a  multitude  of  pleasant  thoughts,  which  lie  too  deep  for 
tears.  Unanswered  aspirations  come  before  me  with  their  solem 
nities,  and  I  hold  a  deeper  communion  with  my  MAKER.  Some 
soft  instrument  of  music,  touched  by  a  fair  hand,  in  the  nocturnal 
hours,  adds  to  the  quietude,  and  I  thank  that  Spirit  for  its  spell, 
in  hurried  numbers : 

WHEN  the  worn  heart  its  early  dream 

In  darkness  and  in  vain  pursues, 
How  shall  the  visionary  gleam 

Of  joy  o'er  life  its  charm  diffuse? 
How  shall  the  glowing  thought  aspire, 

The  cheek  with  passion's  flush  be  warm, 
Or  the  dim  eyes  resume  their  fire, 

Their  sunshine,  victory  of  the  storm  ? 

Ah,  who  can  tell  ?     Not  thou,  whose  words 
Are  lightest,  liveliest  of  the  throng  ; 

Whose  carol,  like  the  summer  bird's, 
Pours  out  the  winning  soul  of  song ; 


OLLAPODIANA.  237 

Not  thou,  whose  calm  and  shining  brow, 

The  sadness  of  thy  strain  belies  ; 
Whose  spirits,  like  thy  music,  flow, 

Won  from  the  founts  of  Paradise  ! 

BY-THE-BY,  the  first  individual  from  whom  I  ever  heard  an 
amatory  effusion,  was  an  immense  arrangement  of  flesh  and 
blood — a  milliner,  from  Yorkshire,  in  England.  She  had  come 
from  home,  with  her  large  fat  face,  with  all  the  bloom  on,  and 
with  big  watery  eyes.  How  she  would  flatter  herself  that  she 
was  enchanting  the  students,  as,  in  quizzing  convocations,  they 
invited  her  at  green-horn  parties,  (after  a  turn  at  Blind  Man's 
BufF,  or  some  such  highly  intellectual  game,)  to  sing  '  Oh  'tis 
Love — 'tis  Love!'  Her  stupendous  chest  seemed  to  expand 
with  the  tender  passion  ;  and  oh  —  ears,  that  were  searched  with 
the  volume  of  her  notes,  attest  the  fact — how  she  tortured  the 
attentive  tympanum  !  In  form,  as  I  have  said,  she  was  immense; 
a  John  Reeve  in  petticoats,  and  not  unlike  that  most  fantastic 
Cupid.  Gentle  Giantess  !  Many  years  have  passed,  since  she 
chaunted  to  those  roystering  '  Academy  boys  !'  If  she  yet  live, 
she  might  say  *  Here  /'  to  Elia's  description  of  her  whilome  Ox 
ford  counterpart:  '  There  may  be  her  parallel  upon  the  earth,  but 
surely  I  never  saw  it.  I  take  her  to  be  lineally  descended  from 
the  maid's  aunt  of  Brainford,  who  caused  Master  Ford  such  un 
easiness.  She  hath  Atlantean  shoulders ;  and,  as  she  stoopeth 
in  her  gait — with  as  few  offences  to  answer  for  in  her  own  par 
ticular  as  any  of  Eve's  daughters  —  her  back  seems  broad  enough 
to  bear  the  blame  of  all  the  peccadillos  that  have  been  committed 
since  Adam.  She  girdeth  her  waist,  or  what  she  is  pleased  to 
esteem  as  such,  nearly  up  to  her  shoulders,  from  beneath  which, 
that  huge  dorsal  expanse,  in  mountainous  declivity,  emergeth. 
Respect  for  her  alone  preventeth  the  idle  boys,  who  follow  her 
about  in  shoals,  whenever  she  cometh  abroad,  from  getting  up  and 
riding.  But  her  presence  infallibly  commands  a  reverence.  She 
is  indeed,  as  the  Americans  would  express  it,  something  awful. 
Her  person  is  a  burthen  to  herself,  no  less  than  the  ground  which 
bears  her.  To  her  mighty  bone,  she  hath  a  pinguitude  withal, 
which  makes  the  depth  of  winter  to  her  the  most  desirable  season. 
Her  distress  in  the  warmer  solstice  is  pitiable.  During  the 
months  of  July  and  August,  she  usually  renteth  a  cool  cellar, 
where  ices  are  kept,  whereinto  she  descendeth  when  Sirius  rageth. 
She  dates  from  a  hot  Thursday — some  twenty-five  years  ago. 
Her  apartment  in  summer  is  pervious  to  the  four  winds.  Two 
doors  in  north  and  south  direction,  and  two  windows  fronting  the 
rising  and  the  setting  sun,  never  closed,  from  every  cardinal  point 


238  OLLAPODIANA. 

catch  the  contributory  breezes.  She  loves  to  enjoy  what  she  calls 
a  quadruple  draught.  That  must  be  a  shrewd  zephyr,  that  can 
escape  her.  I  owe  a  painful  face-ache,  which  oppresses  me  at 
this  moment,  to  a  cold  caught,  sitting  by  her,  one  day  in  last  July, 
at  this  receipt  of  coolness.  Her  fan,  in  ordinary,  resembleth  a 
banner  spread,  which  she  keepeth  continually  on  the  alert  to  de 
tect  the  least  breeze.  She  possesseth  an  active  and  gadding 
mind,  totally  incommensurate  with  her  person.  No  one  delight- 
eth  more  than  herself  in  country  exercises  and  pastimes.  I  have 
passed  many  an  agreeable  holiday  with  her  in  her  favorite  park  at 
Woodstock.  She  performs  her  part  in  these  delightful  ambula 
tory  excursions  by  the  aid  of  a  portable  garden  chair.  She  set- 
teth  out  with  you  at  a  fair  foot  gallop,  which  she  keepeth  up  till 
you  are  both  well  breathed,  and  then  she  reposeth  for  a  few 
seconds.  Then  she  is  up  again  for  a  hundred  paces  or  so,  and 
again  resteth  ;  her  movement,  on  these  sprightly  occasions,  being 
something  between  walking  and  flying.  Her  great  weight  seem- 
eth  to  propel  her  forward,  ostrich-fashion.  In  this  kind  of  relieved 
marching,  I  have  traversed  with  her  many  scores  of  acres  on  those 
well-wooded  and  well-watered  domains.  Her  delight  at  Oxford 
is  in  the  public  walks  and  gardens,  where,  when  the  weather  is 
not  too  oppressive,  she  passeth  much  of  her  valuable  time. 
There  is  a  bench  at  Maudlin,  or  rather,  situated  between  the 
frontiers  of  that  and  Christ's  college ;  some  litigation,  latterly, 
about  repairs,  has  vested  the  property  of  it  finally  in  Christ's ; 
where  at  the  hour  of  noon  she  is  ordinarily  to  be  found  sitting, 
so  she  calls  it  by  courtesy,  but  in  fact,  pressing  and  breaking  of 
it  down  with  her  enormous  settlement ;  as  both  of  those  founda 
tions,  who,  however,  are  good-natured  enough  to  wink  at  it,  have 
found,  I  believe,  to  their  cost.  Here  she  taketh  the  fresh  air, 
principally  at  vacation  times,  when  the  walks  are  freest  from  in 
terruption  of  the  younger  fry  of  students.  Here  she  passeth  her 
idle  hours,  not  idly,  but  generally  accompanied  with  a  book ; 
blest  if  she  can  but  intercept  some  resident  Fellow,  (as  usually 
there  are  some  of  that  brood  left  behind  at  these  periods,)  or  stray 
Master  of  Arts,  (to  most  of  whom  she  is  better  known  than  their 
dinner  bell,)  with  whom  she  may  confer  upon  any  curious  topic 
of  literature.  

YET  the  burden  of  love  and  song,  after  all,  hallows  every  thing 
it  bends  withal.  Poetry  is  your  true  dignifier  of  the  work-day 
world.  In  amber,  your  fly  may  go  down  balmy  to  other  ages, 
that  without  that  sweet  consistence  for  an  overcoat,  shall  smell  to 
heaven  from  the  shambles, -or  be  passed  with  a  buzz  of  contempt 


OLLAPODIANA.  239 

by  surviving  friends  of  his  race,  of  either  gender,  as  they  disport 
themselves,  in  impassioned  union,  on  a  warm  summer  pane. 
Even  servitude  may  thus  be  embellished  by  song,  and  the  hum 
blest  stations  win  the  highest  flights.  Here  followeth  a  strain  to 
a  waiter's  memory,  well  known  to  the  denizens  of  Brotherly 
Love,  in  other  hours  —  but  now  laid  i'  the  earth,  with  all  odors 
and  honor.  Some  lines  therein  shall  be  seen  italicized.  'Tis  a 
work  of  mine,  for  which  I  crave  the  pardon  of  the  friend  from 
whose  rare  harp  the  numbers  come : 

ODE    TO    BOGLE. 

DEDICATED,   WITH   PERMISSION,   AND    A   PIECE   OF   MINT-STICK,  TO   META   B f 

AGED   FOUR  YEARS. 

1  Restituit  rem  cunctando.' — EUN.  AP.  CICERO. 
1  Of  Brownis  and  of  Bogilis  ful  is  this  buke.'—  GAWIN  DOUGLAS. 

BOGLE  !  not  he  whose  shadow  flies 
Before  a  frighted  Scotchman's  eyes, 
But  thou  of  Eighth  near  Sansom  —  thou 
Colorless  color'd  man,  whose  brow 
Unmoved  the  joys  of  life  surveys, 
Untouched  the  gloom  of  death  displays; 
Reckless  if  joy  or  grief  prevail, 
Stern,  multifarious^  BOGLE,  hail ! 

Hail  may'st  thou  Bogle,  for  thy  reign 

Extends  o'er  nature's  wide  domain, 

Begins  before  our  earliest  breath, 

Nor  ceases  with  the  hour  of  death  : 

Scarce  seems  the  blushing  maiden  wed, 

Unless  thy  care  the  supper  spread  ; 

Half  christened  only  were  that  boy, 

Whose  heathen  squalls  our  ears  annoy, 

If,  supper  finished,  cakes  and  wine 

Were  given  by  any  hand  but  thine  ; 

And  Christian  burial  e'en  were  scant. 

Unless  his  aid  the  Bogle  grant. 

Lover  of  pomps  !  the  dead  might  rise, 

And  feast  upon  himself  his  eyes, 

When  marshalling  the  black  array, 

Thou  ruVst  the  sadness  of  the  day ; 

Teaching  how  grief  should  be  genteel, 

And  legatees  should  seem  to  feel. 

Death's  seneschal !  'tis  thine  to  trace 

For  each  his  proper  look  and  place, 

How  aunts  should  weep,  where  uncles  stand, 

With  hostile  cousins,  hand  in  hand, 

Give  matchless  gloves,  and  fitly  shape 

By  length  of  face  the  length  of  crape. 

See  him  erect,  with  lofty  tread, 

The  dark  scarf  streaming  from  his  head, 

Lead  forth  his  groups  in  order  meet, 


240  OLLAPODIANA. 

And  range  them,  grief-wise  in  the  street ; 

Presiding  o'er  the  solemn  show, 

The  very  Chesterfield  of  wo. 

Evil  to  him  should  bear  the  pall, 

Yet  comes  two  late  or  not  at  all ; 

Wo  to  the  mourner  who  shall  stray 

One  inch  beyond  the  trim  array ; 

Still  worse,  the  kinsman  who  shall  move, 

Until  thy  signal  voice  approve. 

Let  widows,  anxious  to  fulfil, 

(For  the  first  time,)  the  dear  man's  will, 

Lovers  and  lawyers  ill  at  ease, 

For  bliss  deferr'd,  or  loss  of  fees, 

Or  heirs  impatient  of  delay, 

Chafe  inly  at  his  formal  stay  ; 

The  Bogle  heeds  not ;  firm  and  true, 

Resolved  to  give  the  dead  his  due, 

No  jot  of  honor  will  he  bate, 

Nor  stir  towards  the  church-yard  gate, 

Till  the  last  parson  is  at  hand, 

And  every  hat  has  got  its  land. 

Before  his  stride  the  town  gives  way— 

Beggars  and  belles  confess  his  sway ; 

Drays,  prudes,  and  sweeps,  a  startled  mass, 

Rein  up  to  let  his  cortege  pass, 

And  Death  himself,  that  ceaseless  dun, 

Who  waits  on  all,  yet  waits  for  none, 

Rebuked  beneath  his  haughty  tone, 

Scarce  dares  to  call  his  life  his  own. 

Nor  less,  stupendous  man  !  thy  power, 
In  festal  than  in  funeral  hour, 
When  gas  and  beauty's  blended  rays 
Set  hearts  and  ball-rooms  in  a  blaze  ; 
Or  spermaceti's  light  reveals 
More  '  inward  bruises'  than  it  heals  ; 
In  flames  each  belle  her  victim  kills, 
And  *- sparks  fly  upward'  in  quadrilles, 
Like  iceberg  in  an  Indian  clime, 
Refreshing  Bogle  breathes  sublime, 
Cool  airs  upon  that  sultry  stream, 
From  Roman  punch  or  frosted  cream 

So,  sadly  social,  when  we  flee 
From  milky  talk  and  watery  tea, 
To  dance  by  inches  in  that  strait 
Betwixt  a  side-board  and  a  grate, 
With  rug  uplift,  and  blower  tight, 
'Gainst  that  foul  fire- fiend,  anthracite, 
Then  Bogle  o'er  the  weary  hours 
A  world  of  sweets  incessant  showers, 
Till,  blest  relief  from  noise  and  foam, 
The  farewell  pound-cake  warns  us  home 
Wide  opes  the  crowd  to  let  thee  pass, 
And  hail  the  music  of  thy  glass. 


OLLAPODIANA.  241 


Drowning  all  other  sounds,  e'en  those 

From  Bollman  or  Sigoigne  that  rose  ; 

From  Chapman's  self  some  eye  will  stray 

To  rival  charms  upon  thy  tray, 

Which  thou  dispensest  with  an  air, 

As  life  or  death  depended  there. 

Wo  for  the  luckless  wretch,  whose  back 

Has  stood  against  a  window  crack, 

And  then  impartial,  cool'st  in  turn 

The  youth  whom  love  and  Lehigh  burn. 

On  Johnson's  smooth  and  placid  mien 

A  quaint  and  fitful  smile  is  seen  ; 

O'er  Shepherd's  pale  romantic  face, 

A  radiant  simper  we  may  trace; 

But  on  the  Bogle's  steadfast  cheek, 

Lugubrious  thoughts  their  presence  speak, 

His  very  smile,  serenely  stern, 

As  lighted  Lachrymary  urn. 

In  church  or  state,  in  bower  and  hall, 

He  gives  with  equal  face  to  all : 

The  wedding  cake,  the  funeral  crape, 

The  mourning  glove,  the  festal  grape  ; 

In  the  same  tone  when  crowd's  disperse, 

Calls  Powell's  hack,  or  Carter's  hearse  ; 

As  gently  grave,  as  sadly  grim, 

At  the  quick  waltz  as  funeral  hymn. 

Thou  social  Fabius  !  since  the  day, 
When  Rome  was  saved  by  wise  delay, 
None  else  has  found  the  happy  chance, 
By  always  waiting,  to  advance. 
Let  time  and  tide,  coquettes  so  rude, 
Pass  on,  yet  hope  to  be  pursued, 
Thy  gentler  nature  waits  on  all ; 
When  parties  rage,  on  thee  they  call, 
Who  seek  no  office  in  the  state, 
Content,  while  others  push,  to  wait. 

Yet,  (not  till  Providence  bestowed 
On  Adam's  sons  McAdam's  road,) 
Unstumbling  foot  was  rarely  given 
To  man  nor  beast  when  quickly  driven  ; 
And  they  do  say,  but  this  I  doubt, 
For  seldom  he  lets  things  leak  out, 
They  do  say,  ere  the  dances  close, 
His  too  are  '  light  fantastic  toes ;' 
Oh,  if  this  be  so,  Bogle  !  then 
How  are  we  served  by  serving  men  ! 
A  waiter  by  his  weight  forsaken  ! 
An  undertaker — overtaken! 

L'ENVOI. 

META  !  thy  riper  years  may  know 
More  of  this  world's  fantastic  show  ; 
In  thy  time,  as  in  mine,  shall  be, 
16 


242  OLLAPODIANA. 

Burials  and  pound-cake,  beaux  and  tea ; 
Rooms  shall  be  hot,  and  ices  cold  ; 
And  flirts  be  both,  as  't  was  of  old  ; 
Love,  too,  and  mint-stick  shall  be  made, 
Some  dearly  bought,  some  lightly  weighed  ; 
As  true  the  hearts,  the  forms  as  fair, 
And  equal  joy  and  grace  be  there, 


The  smile  as  bright,  as  soft  the  ogle, 
But  never  —  never  such  a  Bogle  ! 


ONE  word  in  your  ear,  reader,  before  we  part.  The  writer 
of  the  foregoing  is  a  '  Monster.'  If  you  would  see  his  like,  (in 
some  men's  opinion,)  consult  Homer,  Milton,  and  T> ante,  passim. 
You  shall  not  find,  in  all  their  pages,  a  monster  of  more  note,  or 
one  that  less  deserves  the  name.  He  is  a  summer's  morning 
monster,  and  wears  the  brighter  as  the  calmness  of  the  mid-day 
hours  plays  full  upon  him.  I  have  given  you  a  clue  —  resolve 
me  my  Riddle. 

Totally  thine,  OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER    TWENTY-THREE. 

May,  1838. 

IT  is  no  long  time,  respected  Reader,  since  we  communed  to 
gether.  Yet  how  many  matters  have  happened  since  that  period, 
which  should  give  us  pause,  and  solemn  meditation !  We  are 
still  extant ;  the  beams  of  our  spirit  still  shine  from  our  eyes ; 
yet  there  are  many  who,  since  last  my  sentences  came  to  yours, 
have  drooped  their  lids  for  ever  upon  things  of  earth.  Number 
less  ties  have  been  severed ;  numberless  hearts  rest  from  their 
pantings,  and  sleep,  *  no  more  to  fold  the  robe  o'er  secret  pain.' 
All  the  deceits,  the  masks  of  life,  are  ended  with  them.  Policy 
no  more  bids  them  to  kindle  the  eye  with  deceitful  lustre  ;  no 
more  prompts  to  semblance,  which  feeling  condemns.  They  are 
gone  !  — '  ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust ;'  and  when  I  think  of 
the  numbers  who  thus  pass  away,  I  am  pained  within  me ;  for  I 
know  from  them  that  our  life  is  not  only  as  a  dream  which  pass- 
eth  away,  but  that  the  garniture,  or  the  carnival  of  it,  is  indeed  a 
vapor,  sun-gilt  for  a  moment,  then  colored  with  the  dun  hues  of 
death,  or  stretching  its  dim  folds  afar,  until  their  remotest  outlines 
catch  the  imperishable  glory  of  eternity.  Such  is  life  ;  made  up 
of  successful  or  successless  accidents ;  its  movers  and  actors, 
from  the  cradle  to  three-score-and-ten,  pushed  about  by  Fate : 


OLLAPODIANA.  243 

not  their  own ;  aspiring  but  impotent ;  impelled  as  by  visions, 
and  rapt  in  a  dream — which  who  can  dispel  ? 

To  THOSE  who  take  every  event  in  their  lives  as  a  matter  of 
1  special  providence  ;'  who  make  a  shop-keeper  and  supercargo 
of  Omnipotence  ;  who  refer  to  celestial  interposition  the  recovery 
of  a  debt,  the  acknowledgment  of  a  larceny,  or  the  profits  on  a 
box  of  candles,  or  a  bundle  of  ten-penny  nails ;  who  perceive 
something  more  than  a  special  providence  in  the  death  of  a  spar 
row,  or  the  fall  of  a  brick-bat,  sent  from  vagrant  hand ;  to  those, 
all  argument  of  reason  would  be  useless,  even  if  they  who  em 
ployed  it  wrere  warm  and  sincere,  as  I  know  Jam,  in  a  belief  of 
the  general  watchfulness  of  my  Creator  over  men's  wo  and  weal. 
But,  as  in  things  that  are  of  the  earth  earthy,  there  is  but  a  step 
from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous,  as  was  said  by  the  great  cap 
tain  of  his  age,  so  it  appears  to  me  is  it  with  things  celestial.  It 
seems  impossible  for  the  human  intellect  to  appreciate  that  trifling 
ubiquity  of  supervision  which  some  credulous  persons,  more  de 
vout  than  intelligent,  impute  to  the  supervision  of  the  Almighty. 
That  God  is  everywhere,  admits  of  no  dispute ;  but  when  we 
ramify  his  discernments  into  the  scrutiny  of  those  minutest  mat 
ters  which  would  scarcely  attract  for  a  moment  the  observation 
even  of  low-minded  men,  we  create  an  anomaly  which  has,  in 
proportion  to  its  indifference,  an  aspect  of  frivolity,  and  an  atti 
tude  of  common-place.  It  seems  to  establish  or  defend  that 
theory,  which  pronounces  that  whatever  is,  is  right.  This  is  a 
phrase  of  POPE'S,  which  in  my  humble  opinion  contains  much 
more  poetry  than  philosophy.  To  maintain  that  all  which  ?'s,  is 
right,  does  away,  in  my  poor  sense,  with  all  true  appreciation  of 
rectitude  and  wrong.  It  nullifies  the  Decalogue.  If  the  postu 
late  be  true,  why  the  tablets  of  the  law,  or  that  divine  mountainous 
sermon  ?  What  need  of  statues,  or  the  jury  of  a  man's  peers  ? 
Why  arraign  a  man  who  abstracts  the  horse  from  his  stable,  with 
out  a  *  by  y'r  leave'  from  the  owner,  or  seduces  a  ram  from  the 
pasture,  without  clover  or  salt  ?  Why  should  penitentiaries  be 
filled  ?  Why  Auburn  or  Sing-Sing  hear  the  groans  of  the  priso 
ners  ?  If  all  that  z's,  is  right,  these  prisoners  have  but  done  their 
duty  ;  counterfeiting  is  but  a  pastime,  though  fruitful ;  perjury  is 
a  species  of  verbal  romance,  sanctified  by  a  kiss  on  calf  or  sheep 
skin  ;  larceny  and  burglary,  the  acts  of  brief  visitors  who  make 
strong  attachments  ;  and  even  murder  itself,  a  modification  of  the 
code  d'honneur — a  kind  of  *  popping  tke  question'  in  the  great 
matter  of  the  future  ;  sometimes  put  with  lead  to  the  aorta,  or  with 
steel  to  the  jugular. 


244  OLLAPODIANA. 

BUT  while  I  impugn  the  philosophy  of  Pope,  in  the  phrase 
hereinbefore  mentioned,  let  me  not  arraign  his  verse,  or  cast  one 
doubtful  shade  upon  the  brightness  of  his  thoughts,  or  the  sweet 
harmony  of  his  numbers.  How  often  have  their  cadences  satis 
fied  my  ear,  and  enriched  my  mind !  In  his  Eloise,  the  actual, 
solemn  swell  of  the  music  which  distracted  the  nun  betwixt  the 
choice  of  Earth  or  Heaven,  seems  pouring  from  the  strain.  He 
brings  to  my  mind  those  sunny  seasons  when  my  sense  of  har 
mony,  though  less  acute,  was  perhaps  more  rapturous,  than  now ; 
when  the  rustle  of  leaves,  the  casual  trills  of  summer  birds,  the 
chiming  dance  of  waters,  and  the  zephyrs,  floating  from  the  frag 
rant  south  or  balmy  west,  seemed  to  breathe  of  the  concords,  and 
herald  the  dulcet  airs,  of  Paradise.  Sometimes,  in  the  jostling 
din  and  bustle  of  active  life,  I  lose  these  harmonies  for  a  little 
season,  and  I  feel  oppressed  with  the  spirit  of  discontent  and 
complaining ;  and  could  say  within  me,  as  do  the  Hebrews  in 
their  service  of  the  morning  of  the  ninth  of  Ab,  lamenting  the 
sweet  bells  lost  from  the  priestly  robes  of  Israel ;  the  lost  language 
of  seers  and  poets,  the  ephod,  and  the  memorials,  '  The  voice 
of  wailing  hath  passed  over  my  melodious  psalteries  ;  wo  is  me  !' 

Is  there  any  poetry  equal  in  severe  simplicity,  and  quiet 
natural  beauty,  to  that  of  the  Hebrews  of  Israel  ?  I  confess  that 
I  think  not.  In  his  inspired  wanderings,  I  can  conceive  that 
Shakspeare  walked  as  it  were  arm-in-arm  with  Moses  and  the 
prophets  ;  with  that  complaining  man  of  Uz,  who  held  colloquies 
with  the  Almighty,  in  whirlwind  and  storm.  In  truth,  as  I  have 
pored  over  some  of  the  beautiful  inspirations  of  the  Dispersed  of 
modern  days,  they  come  to  my  spirit  like  '  the  airs  of  Palestine.' 
Indeed,  I  have  had  great  doubts,  whenas  I  have  overlooked  the 
pages  which  have  been  lent  me  by  a  Rabbi  of  the  Synagogue, 
written  on  one  page  with  mysterious  characters,  and  on  the  other 
with  the  pure  English  version  of  those  venerated  Scriptures, 
whether  the  renderings  of  YARCHI  and  LEESER,  and  others,  were 
not  more  beautiful  than  those  which  have  given  to  us  the  Word, 
from  the  sovereign  command  of  the  First  James  of  England. 
Let  us  list  the  following,  as  read  in  the  Fast  of  the  ninth  of  Ab. 
4  The  lot  of  the  Lord's  inheritance  is  Jacob.  He  encircled  him, 
and  he  watched  him,  and  he  guarded  .him  as  the  apple  of  his  eye. 
As  an  eagle  stirreth  up  her  nest,  fluttereth  her  young,  spreadeth 
abroad  her  wing,  taketh  them,  bearcth  them  aloft  on  her  pinions, 
so  the  Lord  did  lead  him.'  And  how  eloquently  do  they  com 
plain  !  '  Where,'  they  ask,  in  their  deep  and  briefest  language, 
'  where  is  the  residence  of  the  Divine  Glory  ?  the  house  of  the 


OLLAPODIANA.  245 

Levitic  order,  and  their  desk  ?  Where  the  glory  of  the  faithful 
city?  Where  are  the  chiefs  of  thy  schools,  and  where  thy  judges^ 
Who  arrange  the  answers  to  them  ?  —  who  ask  concerning  thy 
mysteries  ?  Where  are  they  who  walk  in  the  paths  of  truth,  en 
lightened  by  the  brightness  of  thy  shining  V 

There  is  something  extremely  touching  to  me  in  these  Israel- 
itish  lamentations.  They  were  wailed  con  amore,  and  by  the 
card.  I  truly  believe,  that  all  the  sackcloth  poetry  of  modern 
time,  put  together,  would  give  a  mere  dividend  of  the  great  capi 
tal  of  dolor  employed  by  the  olden-time  Hebrews.  They  wept 
and  howled  copiously,  yea,  abundantly.  There  is  something, 
after  all,  sacred  in  sorrow.  It  has  a  dignity,  which  joy  never 
possesses.  The  sufferings  of  Medea  in  Euripides ;  the  scenes 
betwixt  Andromache  and  Hector ;  the  pangs  of  Virginius  ;  these 
are  remembered,  and  will  be,  when  the  glittering  treasures  of 
Croesus  at  Delphi  shall  be  forgotten,  and  the  gay  measures  of 
Gyges  be  l&st  to  men.  Here  is  a  strain  in  this  kind  ;  one  that 
was  spent  at  the  close  of  a  summer  day,  some  year  or  so  agone. 
It  needs  a  little  preliminary  blazon. 


You  must  know,  reader,  that  there  lieth,  some  three  miles  or 
so  from  Brotherly  Love  —  a  city  of  this  continent,  a  delectable 
city — a  place  of  burial,  'Laurel  Hill'  by  name.  On  a  sweeter 
spot,  the  great  sun  never  threw  the  day-spring  of  the  morning, 
nor  the  blush  of  the  evening  West.  There  the  odors  and  colors 
of  nature  profusely  repose  ;  there,  to  rest  of  a  spring  or  summer 
afternoon,  on  some  rural  seat,  looking  at  trees,  and  dancing 
waters,  and  the  like,  you  would  wonder  at  that  curious  question 
addressed  of  Dean  Swift,  on  his  death-bed,  to  a  friend  at  his  side: 
*  Did  you  ever  know  of  any  really  good  weather  in  this  world  T 
You  would  take  the  affirmative.  Well,  thus  I  sang : 

HERE  the  lamented  dead  in  dust  shall  lie, 

Life's  lingering  languors  o'er — its  labors  done  ; 

Where  waving  boughs,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
Admit  the  farewell  radiance  of  the  sun. 

Here  the  long  concourse  from  the  murmuring  town, 

With  funeral  pace  and  slow,  shall  enter  in  ; 
To  lay  the  loved  in  tranquil  silence  down, 

No  more  to  suffer,  and  no  more  to  sin. 

And  here  the  impressive  stone,  engraved  with  words 
Which  Grief  sententious  gives  to  marble  pale, 

Shall  teach  the  heart,  while  waters,  leaves,  and  birds 
Make  cheerful  music  in  the  passing  gale. 


246  OLLAPODIANA. 

Say,  wherefore  should  we  weep,  and  wherefore  pour 

On  scented  airs  the  unavailing  sigh — 
While  sun-bright  waves  are  quivering  to  the  shore, 

And  landscapes  blooming — that  the  loved  should  die? 

There  is  an  emblem  in  this  peaceful  scene : 

Soon,  rainbow  colors  on  the  woods  will  fall ; 
And  autumn  gusts  bereave  the  hills  of  green, 

As  sinks  the  year  to  meet  its  cloudy  pall. 

Then,  cold  and  pale,  in  distant  vistas  round, 
Disrobed  and  tuneless,  all  the  woods  will  stand ; 

While  the  chained  streams  are  silent  as  the  ground, 
As  Death  had  numbed  them  with  his  icy  hand. 

Yet,  when  the  warm  soft  winds  shall  rise  in  spring, 
Like  struggling  day-beams  o'er  a  blasted  heath, 

The  bird  returned  shall  poise  her  golden  wing, 
And  liberal  nature  break  the  spell  of  death. 

So,  when  the  tomb's  dull  silence  finds  an  end, 
The  blessed  Dead  to  endless  youth  shall  rise ; 

And  hear  the  archangel's  thrilling  summons  blend 
Its  tones  with  anthems  from  the  upper  skies. 

There  shall  the  good  of  earth  be  found  at  last, 
Where  dazzling  streams  and  vernal  fields  expand; 

Where  Love  her  crown  attains — her  trials  past  — 
And,  filled  with  rapture,  hails  the  better  land  ! 

Thus  I  strummed  the  old  harpsichord,  from  which  I  have 
aforetime,  at  drowsy  hours  and  midnight  intervals,  extracted  a 
few  accidental  numbers,  (more  pleasant  doubtless  to  beget  than 
read,)  *  sleepless  myself,  to  give  to  others  sleep  !' 

WELL,  that  is  the  only  way  to  write  without  fatigue,  both  to 
author  and  reader.  In  all  that  pertains  to  the  petty  businesses 
which  bow  us  to  the  routine  of  this  work-day  world,  I  am  as  it 
were  at  home.  I  am  distinctly  a  mover  in  the  great  tide  of  Ac 
tion  sweeping  on  around  me  ;  yet  when  I  enter  into  the  sanc 
tuary  of  the  Muses,  lo  !  at  one  wave  of  the  spiritual  wand,  this 
*  dim  and  ignorant  present'  disappears.  I  breathe  a  rarer  atmo 
sphere.  Visions  of  childhood  throng  upon  my  soul ;  the  blue 
mountain-tops ;  the  aerial  circles  of  far-off  landscapes  ;  the  hazy 
horizon  of  ocean-waters ;  the  wind-tossed  verdure  of  summer  ; 
the  hills  that  burst  into  singing  ;  and  the  sweet  harmonies  of  na 
ture — Universal  Parent! — all  appeal  to  my  spirit.  This  dis 
memberment  of  the  ideal  from  the  actual,  is  a  fountain  of  enjoy 
ment,  which  whoso  knows  not,  has  yet  tlie  brightest  lessons  of 
life  to  learn.  He  has  yet  to  enter  that  fairy  dominion  which 
seems  the  intermediate  territory  betwixt  the  airy  realms  conceived 


OLLAPODIANA.  247 

of  in  this  world,  and  the  more  radiant  glories  of  that  undiscovered 
country, 

'  from  whose  bourne 

No  traveller  returns.' 

There  is  something  in  the  feeling,  beyond  the  impulses  of 
fame,  beyond  the  *  mouth  honor,  breath,'  which  the  falsest  of  the 
world  are  the  most  ready  to  bestow ;  something  beyond  the  empty 
plaudits,  the  spurious  honors,  of  the  multitude,  given  to-day, 
withheld  to-morrow.  Anathemas  a  moment  gone,  benedictions 
now,  these  are  the  marks  and  signals  of  the  multitude.  I  would 
not  seek  their  favor,  for  their  disapproval  is  the  same  in  the  end. 
It  is  a  curious  truth,  that  no  man  realizes  fame,  until  he  is  beyond 
it ;  that  the  tardy  honors  which  men  receive  from  kingly  or  from 
republican  powers,  generally  come  too  late  to  be  appreciated— 
or  rather,  too  late  to  be  of  value. 

YET  there  is  something  exceedingly  solemn  in  the  mutability 
of  a  name.  'T  is  indeed  as  a  vapor,  which  appeareth  but  for  a 
little  season,  and  then  vanisheth  away.  I  like  not  this  life-after- 
death  repute,  this  post-mortem  vitality.  *  Give  it  to  me,  if  I  de 
serve  it,  while  the  breath  of  existence  sports  in  my  nostrils  ; 
while  I  can  walk,  and  hear  and  see,  and  jostle  among  men  !' 
Such  are  my  aspirations,  malgre  the  littleness  of  it.  To  have  an 
tiquaries  puzzling  themselves  with  one's  merits,  supposing  that 
they  might  reach  beyond  his  sepulture,  is  to  my  mind  a  dry  and 
arid  prospect.  One  wants  to  be  quiet.  '  To  subsist  in  bones,' 
saith  my  old  friend,  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  *  and  to  be  but  pyra 
midally  extant,  is  a  fallacy  in  duration.  Vain  ashes,  which  in 
the  oblivion  of  Names,  Persons,  Times,  and  Sexes,  have  found 
unto  themselves  a  fruitless  continuation,  and  only  arise  unto  late 
posterity,  as  emblems  of  mortal  vanities,  antidotes  of  pride.  Ob 
livion  blindly  scattereth  her  poppy,  and  deals  with  the  memory 
of  men,  without  distinction  to  merit  of  perpetuity.  Who  can  but 
pity  the  founder,  of  the  pyramids  ?  Herostratus  lives  that  burnt 
the  temple  of  Diana  ;  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it.  Time  hath 
spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse  —  confounded  that  of  him 
self.  In  vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage  of  our 
good  names,  since  bad  have  equal  durations  ;  and  Thersites  is 
is  like  to  live  as  long  as  Agamemnon,  without  the  favor  of  the 
Everlasting  Register.  The  Canaanitish  woman  lives  more  hap 
pily  without  a  name,  than  Herodius  with  one ;  and  who  had  not 
rather  have  been  the  good  thief  than  Pilate6?  Who  knows 
whether  the  best  of  men  be  known  ?  Or  whether  there  be  not 
more  remarkable  persons  forgot,  than  any  that  stand  remembered 
in  the  known  accornpt  of  time  ?'  These  be  puzzling  queries. 


248  OLLAPODIANA. 

IN  our  own  country,  methinks  I  can  depaint  the  means  and 
methods  of  posthumous  fame.  Here,  if  one  who  had  attained  to 
some  eminence  in  his  life-time,  could  awake  fifty  years  after  he 
had  been  quietly  inurned,  and  be  permitted  to  read  the  newspa 
pers,  he  might  find  that  a  steamer  of  his  name  had  burst  her 
boiler ;  *  a  terrible  accident,  with  loss  of  lives,'  on  river  Missis 
sippi  or  Ohio  ;  or  mayhap  that  a  horse,  commemorating  his  cog 
nomen,  had  been  beaten  at  the  Eagle  or  other  course,  with  the 
particulars.  Perhaps  that  he  had  devoted  himself  to  posterity  ; 
to  be  cited  in  other  years  as  the  source  whence  sanguinary  mix 
tures  of  renown  had  sprung ;  advertised  in  hand-bills  ;  and  to  aid, 
perhaps,  in  promoting  to  the  legislature  his  owner,  or  guardian, 
or  friend.  This  is  fame,  or  a  part  of  its  mode  of  bestowment, 
here  below.  Fame! — a  bet-word  —  a  paragraph  —  a  feuilh 
volante — a  hand-bill.  Thank  the  powers  !  I  have  precious  little 
thereof.  And  the  most  I  would  have,  reader,  is  to  write  myself 
your  friend,  OLLAPOD. 


NUMBER ? 

October,  1839. 

SITTING  down,  good  my  reader,  to  write  a  few  paragraphs, 
named  of  the  above,  I  was  sorely  perplexed  as  to  the  number.   'Ol- 

lapodiana :'  Number what  ?     By  the  mass,  I  could  not  tell ; 

the  time  was  so  long  ;  my  thoughts  and  subjects  were  a  broken 
chain  ;  I  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  but  just  returned  from  some 
other  land,  beyond  the  influence  of  days,  and  hours,  and  all  those 
vile  admeasurements  of  time,  so  rigidly  observed  by  such  as  send 
Williams  (bills,  in  the  vulgate,)  for  services  rendered  in  artisan 
line,  and  by  banking  institutions.  Time  seemed  to  have  dissolv 
ed  all  partnership  with  my  vitality,  and  I  was  well  nigh  upon  the 
point  of  exclaiming  upon  him,  in  the  tone  of  honest  Diccon,  in 
Gammer  Gurton's  Needle : 

'  out  upon  thee, 

Above  all  other  loutes,  fye  on  thee  !' 

But  I  checked  the  malediction.  *  Out  upon  Time?' — no! 
Thou  reverend  softener  of  human  sorrow  ;  thou  who,  throned 
upon  the  clouds  of  undiscovered  fate,  or  with  thy  bright  lock  and 
thy  insatiate  weapon,  enrobed  in  the  sunshine  of  hope,  and  gay 
with  that  golden  haze  which  plays  above  the  distant  vaje  of  vernal 


OLLAPODIANA.  249 

Expectation  ;  no  !  not  out  upon  thee  !  Friend  to  the  wretched, 
thou  shouldst  be  a  woman,  for  men,  in  the  profundity  of  their 
blundering,  talk  of  events  in  thy  '  womb  ;'  Great  Unsexed,  and 
yet  evermore  preserving  in  the  primer  thy  masculine  identity;  thy 
rather  disreputable  and  misplaced  queue ;  and  displaying  in  thy 
somewhat  ancient  physiognomy  that  desire  of  getting-ahead,  so 
peculiar  to  thy  respectful  fellow-citizens,  the  American  people. 
They  speak  of  thee  with  respect,  yet  they  take  thee  unceremo 
niously  '  by  the  forelock,'  whether  thy  yellow  hair  floats  on  the 
eastern  mountains,  or  thou  tremblest  at  the  gates  of  the  West. 
Twin-brother  of  Eternity  !  oh,  why  so  taciturn  to  human  hearts, 
whose  yearning  core  would  thrill  with  undying  rapture,  to  hear 
the  particulars  of  the  doings  and  scenes  in  that  vast  country,  the 
dim  dominion  of  thy  Great  Relation  ! 

OBSERVE,  my  friend,  I  am  not  writing  against  time  ;  so  let  us 
slowly  on.  My  impressions  of  the  old  gentleman  are  sometimes 
extremely  fantastic.  I  was  looking,  the  other  day  at  a  playful 
young  cat,  just  emerging  from  the  fairy  time  of  kittenhood  ;  some 
thing  between  the  revelry  of  the  fine  mewer,  and  the  gravity  with 
out  the  experience  of  the  tabby.  Now  one  would  think  that  no 
great  subject  for  contemplation.  It  would  be  looked  upon  by  the 
million  as  inferior  to  astronomy.  But  it  is  the  connexion  of  the 
events  having  reference  to  the  quadruped,  which  renders  her  of 
interest.  Time  will  expand  her  person,  increase  her  musical 
powers,  and  bring  her  admirers.  In  her  back,  on  winter  even 
ings,  will  sleep  a  tolerable  imitation  of  the  lightnings  of  heaven. 
She  will  make  great  noise  o'  nights,  and  lap  at  interdicted  cream. 
So  much  for  her  exterior  < — her  love-passages  and  obstreperous 
concerts.  But  look  within  !  That  compact  embodiment  of  liga 
ments  and  conduits,  now  treading  gingerly  over  those  fading 
leaves,  and  grapes  of  purple,  what  may  they  not  be  hereafter  ? 
Whose  hearts  may  they  not  thrill,  when  strung  on  the  sonorous 
bridge  of  a  cremona,  guided  to  softest  utterances  by  the  master 
hand  ?  How  many  memories  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  fond 
thoughts,  and  sunny  evenings,  and  bowers  by  moonlight,  radiant 
with  the  beams  of  Cynthia,  and  warm  with  the  sweet  reflex  of 
Beauty ;  the  heart,  touched  by  the  attempered  entrail,  rosin-en 
compassed  and  bow-bestrid,  may  bound  in  age  with  recollections 
of  departed  rapture.  And  all  from  what?  Smile  not  at  the  as 
sociation,  my  friend — from  Time  and  cat-gut. 

IT  is  a  pleasure  to  the  bereaved,  to  think  that  time,  which  sad 
ly  overcometh  all  things,  can  alone  restore  the  separated,  and 


250  OLLAPODIANA. 

bring  the  mutually-loved  together.  Time,  which  plants  the  fur 
row,  and  sows  the  seed  of  death,  stands  to  the  faithful  spirit  a 
messenger  of  light  at  that  mysterious  wicket-gate,  from  whence 
we  step  and  enter  upon  the  vast  Unknown.  Compare  with  this 
enlarged,  this  universe-embracing  view,  which  breaks  at  once 
upon  the  soul,  the  act  of  laying  down  in  what  to  some  may  seem 
a  sleep  of  cold  obstruction  ;  and  where  is  the  resemblance  of  the 
one,  or  what  eye  hath  heard,  or  what  heart  conceived,  of  the  in 
finitude  of  the  other :  where  the  blooming  immensity  of  a  do 
minion,  beyond  all  realms  enrolled  of  earth,  spreads  brightly  to 
the  sight,  illumined  for  ever  with  the  bountiful  smile  of  the  Giver 
of  Good. 

Now  there  are  some  who  do  love  marvellously  to  talk  about 
the  dainty  glories  of  Spring.  One  of  this  sort  is  my  friend  DAF 
FODILLY.  Daf.  is  a  clever  individual,  with  a  heart  as  open  as 
the  day  to  the  charities  of  life.  But  he  turns  up  his  nose  at  all 
the  seasons,  excepting  Spring.  The  sight  of  an  early  flower  in 
April  makes  his  head  a  watering-pot.  He  is  troubled  with  a 
kind  of  greeft-sickness,  and  reads  Thomson  as  though  his  like 
never  was  nor  could  be.  He  has  the  'pink  incense'  always  upon 
him.  Summer  he  despises ;  and  Autumn,  to  him,  is  one  scene  of 
storm  and  gloom.  Winter  he  associates  with  blue  noses,  crack 
ed  lips,  and  the  absence  of  all  feeling  among  men.  'But  Spring!' 
he  says,  '  that  opens  the  heart,  that  excites  the  sympathies  of  men 
and  hens,  and  produces  glory  and  goslings  !'  I  verily  believe 
that  DafF.  would  listen  with  more  delight  by  the  side  of  a  green 
frog-pond,  to  the  swollen  concert  of  its  occupants,  in  spring-time, 
than  to  the  sweetest  opera  in  the  world,  I  know  his  taste,  and  I 
know  a  glorious  book*  he  has  not  read.  Let  me  commend  unto 
him  this  passage  therein  :  '  In  all  climates,  Spring  is  beautiful. 
In  the  South,  it  is  intoxicating,  and  sets  a  poet  beside  himself. 
The  birds  begin  to  sing  ;  they  utter  a  few  rapturous  notes,  and 
then  wait  for  an  answer  in  the  silent  woods.  Those  green-coated 
musicians,  the  frogs,  make  a  holiday  in  the  neighboring  marshes. 
They,  too,  belong  to  the  orchestra  of  Nature  ;  whose  vast  theatre 
is  again  opened,  though  the  doors  have  been  so  long  bolted  with 
icicles,  and  the  scenery  hung  with  snow  and  frost,  like  cobwebs. 
This  is  the  prelude  which  announces  the  rising  of  the  broad 
green  curtain.  Already  the  grass  shoots  forth.  The  waters  leap 
with  thrilling  pulse  through  the  veins  of  the  earth ;  the  sap 
through  the  veins  of  the  plants  and  trees  ;  and  the  blood  through 

*  Professor  LONGFELLOW'S  '  Hyperion.' 


OLLAPODIANA.  251 

the  veins  of  man.  What  a  thrill  of  delight  in  spring-time  !  What  a 
joy  in  being  and  moving !  Men  are  at  work  in  gardens ;  and  in 
the  air  there  is  an  odor  of  the  fresh  earth.  The  leaf-buds  begin  to 
swell  and  blush.  The  white  blossoms  of  the  cherry  hang  upon  the 
boughs  like  snow-flakes ;  and  ere  long,  our  next-door  neighbors 
will  be  completely  hidden  from  us  by  the  dense  green  foliage.  The 
May-flowers  open  their  soft  blue  eyes.  Children  are  let  loose  in 
the  fields  and  gardens.  They  hold  buttercups  under  each  other's 
chins,  to  see  if  they  love  butter.  And  the  little  girls  adorn  them 
selves  with  chains  and  curls  of  dandelions ;  pull  out  the  yellow 
leaves  to  see  if  the  school-boy  loves  them,  and  blow  the  down  from 
the  leafless  stalk,  to  find  out  if  their  mothers  want  them  at  home. 
And  at  night  so  cloudless  and  so  still !  Not  a  voice  of  living 
thing,  not  a  whisper  of  leaf  or  waving  bough,  not  a  breath  of 
wind,  not  a  sound  upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air !  And  over 
head  bends  the  blue  sky,  dewy  and  soft,  and  radiant  with  innu 
merable  stars,  like  the  inverted  bell  of  some  blue  flower,  sprin 
kled  with  golden  dust,  and  breathing  fragrance.  Or  if  the  heav 
ens  are  overcast,  it  is  no  wild  storm  of  wind  and  rain  ;  but  clouds 
that  melt  and  fall  in  showers.  One  does  not  wish  to  sleep  ;  but 
lies  awake  to  hear  the  pleasant  sound  of  the  dropping  rain.' 

p 

I  MUST  say,  myself,  that  after  we  have  done  with  June,  the 
summer  mislikes  me.  The  sun  becomes  impertinent ;  his  choler 
increases,  untill  he  is  absolutely  insufferable,  and  you  fly  from  his 
presence.  You  can  hunt  small  panting  birds  in  the  woods,  then, 
if  you  have  the  heart,  as  they  sit  on  the  boughs,  with  their  hot 
mouths  open  ;  and  great  is  the  glory  thereof.  I  once  damaged 
the  fetlock  of  a  wren  in  that  way,  from  the  end  of  a  rusty  musket, 
which  kicked  the  hunter  over  ;  and  sent  the  entrails  of  a  red 
squirrel,  from  the  corner  of  a  zig-zag  fence,  upon  the  rounda 
bout  of  a  traveller,  who  was  journeying  westward  in  a  stage  of 
the  Telegraph  line  ;  my  venatory  exploits  being  all  within  the 
compass  of  these. 

As  I  write,  I  can  appreciate  the  autumn-feeling  —  something 
holy  and  peculiar  —  prevailing  within  me.  I  can  see,  by  the  in 
creasing  azure  of  the  sky,  by  the  enlarged  clearness  of  the  dis 
tant  landscapes,  when  the  eye  greets  them  from  the  city,  and  by 
the  transparent  briskness  of  the  air  at  evening,  that  the  summer 
has  gone,  and  the  autumn-time  begun.  The  woodlands  stand  in 
calm  solemnity,  robed  in  that  rainbow  coloring,  the  herald  of 
their  fallen  honors,  and  the  November  storm.  At  such  a  season, 
the  heart  goes  back,  as  on  wings  of  the  dove,  to  departed  friends, 


252  OLLAPODIANA. 

and  vanished  pleasures ;  and  the  sad  hours  of  memory  come  up 
in  long  review. 

The  evening  approaches.  The  clouds  arise  ;  rain-drops  pat 
ter  on  the  branches  ;  the  winds  are  loud  :  the  hours  pass  imper 
ceptibly.  I  will  write  — and  rest : 

'T  is  an  autumnal  eve  —  the  low  winds,  sighing 

To  wet  leaves,  rustling  as  they  hasten  by  ; 
The  eddying  gusts  to  tossing  boughs  replying, 

And  ebon  darkness  filling  all  the  sky  ; 
The  moon,  pale  mistress,  palled  in  solemn  vapor, 

The  rack,  swift-wandering  through  the  void  above, 
As  I,  a  dreamer  by  my  lonely  taper, 

Send  back  to  faded  hours  the  plaint  of  love. 

Blossoms  of  peace,  once  in  my  pathway  springing, 

Where  have  your  brightness  and  your  splendor  gone  ? 
And  Thou,  whose  voice  to  me  came  sweet  as  singing, 

What  region  holds  thee  in  the  vast  Unknown  ? 
What  star  far  brighter  than  the  rest  contains  thee, 

Beloved,  departed — empress  of  my  heart ! 
What  bond  of  full  beatitude  enchains  thee, 

In  realms  unveiled  by  pen,  or  prophet's  art? 

Ah  !  loved  and  lost !  in  these  autumnal  hours, 

When  fairy  colors  deck  the  painted  tree, 
When  the  vast  woodlands  seem  a  sea  of  flowers, 

Oh!  then  my  soul  exulting  bounds  to  thee  ! 
Springs,  as  to  clasp  thee  yet  in  this  existence, 

Yet  to  behold  thee  at  my  lonely  side  : 
But  the  fond  vision  melts  at  once  to  distance, 

And  my  sad  heart  gives  echo — she  has  died  ! 

Yes  !  when  the  morning  of  her  years  was  brightest, 

That  Angel-presence  into  dust  went  down  ; 
While  yet  with  rosy  dreams  her  rest  was  lightest, 

Death  for  the  olive  wove  the  cypress  crown  ; 
Sleep,  which  no  waking  knows,  o'ercame  her  bosom, 

O'ercame  her  large,  bright,  spiritual  eyes  ; 
Spared  in  her  bower  connubial  one  fair  blossom  — 

Then  bore  her  spirit  to  the  upper  skies. 

There  let  me  meet  her,  when,  life's  struggles  o'er, 

The  pure  in  love  and  thought  their  faith  renew  : 
Where  man's  forgiving  and  redeeming  Lover 

Spreads  out  his  paradise  to  every  view. 
Let  the  dim  Autumn,  with  its  leaves  descending, 

Howl  on  the  winter's  verge  —  yet  Spring  will  come: 
So  my  freed  soul,  no  more  'gainst  fate  contending, 

With  all  it  loveth,  shall  regain  its  home. 

No  more,  my  reader  —  save  only  I  am  thine.  c. 


OLLAPODIANA. 


TWENTY. SIX. 

April,  1840. 

How  do  you  bear  yourself,  my  friend  and  reader,  on  the  sub 
ject  of  winter  generally  ?  What  are  *  your  views  ?'  If  you  are 
young  and  sanguine,  with  no  revulsions  or  tempests  of  the  heart 
to  remember,  I  will  warrant  that  you  like  old  Hyem,  and  patron 
ize  that  most  windy  individual,  Boreas,  of  that  ilk.  Well,  you 
have  a  free  right  to  your  opinion,  and  if  you  held  it  two  years  or 
less  ago,  you  had  the  honor  to  agree  with  me.  But  I  confess  on 
that  point  a  kind  of  a  warped  idiosyncracy ;  an  unaccountable 
change  of  opinion.  The  truth  is,  reader,  between  you  and  me, 
there  is  not  much  dignity  in  winter,  in  a  city.  When,  in  the 
country,  you  can  look  out  upon  the  far-off  landscapes,  the  cold 
blue  hills  rising  afar,  and  where  a  snow-bank  is  really  what  it  is 
cracked  up  to  be  ;  where  the  blast  comes  sounding  to  your 
dwelling  over  a  sweep  of  woods,  and  lakes,  and  snowy  fields,  for 
miles  of  dim  extension,  there  is  some  grandeur  in  the  thing.  But 
what  is  it  to  hear  a  blast,  half  choked  with  the  smoke  and  soot 
of  the  city,  wheezing  down  a  contemptible  chimney-pot,  or  round 
a  corner,  where  the  wind,  that  glorious  emblem  of  freedom,  has 
no  charter  at  all  to  '  blow  out'  as  he  pleases,  but  is  confined  by 
the  statute  of  brick-and-mortar  restrictions  ? 

I  BEGIN  to  affect  the  softer  seasons  ;  and  I  look  with  more 
than  usual  earnestness  for  the  coming-on  of  Spring.  I  am  not 
universal  chronologist  enough  to  know  whether  the  creation  be 
gan  in  the  spring,  but  I  should  suppose  it  did.  If,  when  *  the 
morning  stars  sang  together,'  there  was  one  out  of  tune  ;  one 
whose  role  was  imperfect ;  that  belonged  rather  to  the  stock 
company  of  stars  ;  that  took  no  part  in  the  concert ;  I  apprehend 
it  must  have  been  one  of  those  cold  winter  stars,  that  glister,  and 
go  through  you,  with  their  cold  and  unimpassioned  blinking.  I 
do  not  affect  the  *  dog  star ;'  but  I  must  admit  that  the  stars  of 
spring,  summer,  and  of  autumn,  are  my  favorites.  Those  of 
spring  seem  to  throb  with  love,  and  light,  and  joy,  that  multi 
tudes  of  flowers  are  springing,  and  that  unnumbered  sighs  are 
breathing,  in  the  world  beneath  ;  as  if  indeed  they  knew  and  rel 
ished  the  fact,  that  the  roses  and  violets  had  again  appeared  on  the 
earth  ;  that  *  the  time  of  the  singing  of  the  birds  had  come,  and 
the  voice  of  the  turtle  was  heard  in  the  land.'  True,  the  sum 
mer  stars  have  rather  too  fervent  a  glitter ;  they  look  down  with 
a  tropical  kind  of  aspect,  and  induce  one  to  go  on  the  shady 
side  of  a  street,  even  at  evening,  in  order  to  avoid  the  intense 


254  OLLAPODIANA. 

heat  of  the  moonshine.  At  such  hours,  one  seems  to  have 
reached  that  point,  mentioned  in  nautical  phrase,  which  I  trans 
late  for  ears  polite,  where  the  first  settlement  beyond  purgatory- 
is  to  be  remunerated,  and  there  is  no  tar  to  cancel  the  obligation. 
As  for  the  autumn  stars,  they  are  to  be  praised  in  numbers  ;  not 
in  a  series,  but  in  verse,  as  dazzling  and  pure  as  the  light  they 
dispense,  and  the  thoughts  they  awaken.  Whoever  gazed  at 
them,  in  their  homes  of  blue  infinity,  without  rapture  and  grati 
tude?  

TALKING  of  gratitude,  reminds  me  of  one  of  the  most  extraor 
dinary  developments  of  that  quality,  which  I  ever  remember  to 
have  heard  of  any  where.  It  occurred  in  a  southern  city  ;  where 
there  did  live  a  person,  otherwise  called  an  individual,  who  was 
considered  one  of  the  most  parsimonious  of  all  the  tribe  of  Adam. 
He  had  gone  for  nearly  fifteen  years  without  the  imbuing  of  his 
personal  top,  or  apex,  with  a  new  hat.  He  was  singularly  irras- 
cible,  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  peculiarly  answered  to  the  com 
prehensive  definition  of  man  in  general ;  he  was  an  irregular  di 
gestive  tube,  with  the  principle  of  immortality  at  his  top,  and 
pedal  grain  upon  his  understanding.  Having  worn  his  eter 
nal  ram-beaver  into  greasy  desuetude,  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
to  get  a  new  one  ;  which  he  did  —  price  twelve  dollars.  It  was 
placed,  in  glossy  youih,  upon  his  hall-table  ;  the  '  old  hat,'  as  he 
called  it  only  after  he  had  got  its  successor,  was  removed,  and  he 
sat  down  to  his  dinner  with  all  the  certainty  that  the  next  day  he 
would  strike  the  town  with  a  fresh  sensation.  He  was  not  often, 
*  on  the  street ;'  for  be  it  known, 

He  was  a  man  retired  in  wealth, 

An  ancient  man,  in  feeble  health. 

But  the  fatal  sisters  with  their  intolerable  shears,  clipt  his  hope 
in  the  bud.  A  varlet  who  had  watched  him  all  the  way  from  the 
hatter's  to  his  home  —  a  sort  of  crazy  lounger  of  the  place,  more 
knave  than  fool,  though  enough  of  either — determined  to  '  regain 
his  felt,  and  feel  what  he  regained.'  And  as  the  citizen  sat  at 
meat,  and  thinking  of  the  novelty  of  hat  which  he  should  sport  on 
the  morrow,  it  came  to  pass  that  the  varlet  entered,  and  stole  the 
unhackneyed  chapeau  from  the  hall.  He  left  in  the  place  of  it, 
his  own  miserable  head-gear,  open  at  top,  and  smothered  in 
grease,  with  the  following  words  on  a  slip  of  whitey-brown  paper, 
in  pencil  : 

'My  SUFFERING  SIR: 

'  I  have  taken  your  new  hat,  but  I  leave  you  my  eternal  gratitude. 

'  Your  anonymous  friend,  *  B.  BARLOW. 

4  P.  S.  I  leave  you  an  open  apology  for  what  I  have  taken,  which  I  wish 
you  to  show  to  a  candid  world.'  'B.  B.' 


OLLAPODIANA.  255 

Great  was  the  proprietor  of  that  hat's  consternation,  (this  is 
rather  an  obscure,  but  a  very  common,  mode  of  transposition,) 
when  he  came  out  after  dinner  to  seek  what  was  lost.  *  Con 
found  him  !  curse  him  !'  was  his  vehement  ejaculation.  '  Curse 
his  'gratitude!'  What  good  does  that  do  me?  Where  is  my 
new  hat  T  

I  HAVE  read,  with  a  great  deal  of  interest,  the  extraordinary 
and  quite  original  proposition,  by  the  favorite  writer  and  pulpit 
orator  of  the  '  Messiah'  congregation,*  concerning  the  progress 
of  music.  There  are  few  who  do  not  love  the  concord  of  sweet 
sounds  ;  if  they  are,  we  have  assurance,  on  the  highest  literary 
auth'ority,  that  they  are  fit  for  stratagems,  and  the  '  spoils  of  vic 
tory'  won  thereby.  But  I  launch  forth  at  once  upon  a  strong 
expression,  which  I  seldom  use,  when  I  say,  that  I  rather  think 
that  the  subsequent  theory  of  my  favorite  aforesaid  is  likely  ta 
make  an  immense  revolution  in  the  progress  of  musical  science  j 
namely,  music  by  steam.  When  we  look  back  to  what  was  done 
in  the  musical  days  of '  Salmagundi,'  when  a  fall  of  snow,  par 
liamentary  deliberations,  and  other  soft  and  sleepy  transactions, 
were  expressed  by  appropriate  music,  we  find  that  the  science, 
like  the  witness  in  his  box,  *  stared  into  the  face  of  the  public 
with  rapid  strides.'  There  was  no  evading  the  current  melody. 

But  this  was  in  the  infancy  of  the  science,  in  our  happy  land. 
And  I  have  been  thinking  it  most  surprising  that  this  matter  has 
not  before  been  discovered.  I  have  supposed  that  it  must  have 
been  owing  to  the  alarming  want  of  taste  which  has  been  ascer 
tained  to  exist,  by  those  who  are  only  enabled  to  remark  on 
this  most  obstruse  and  interesting  subject,  that  there  are  'two 
beats  in  a  bar  ;  two  down,  and  two  up.'  Indeed,  it  is  a  curious 
thing,  this  same  music.  My  old  friend,  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
with  all  the  inquiry  of  his  mind,  tells  us  that  he  considers  the 
question,  '  what  songs  the  syrens  sang,'  as  a  decided  enigma ; 
and  I  believe  it  has  never  been  accurately  ascertained  what  tune 
was  *  pitched  upon,'  when  the  morning  stars  sang  together.  But 
we  may  venture  to  indulge  the  idea  that  they  were  all  perfect  in 
their  parts,  from  the  glittering  lasso  to  the  effulgent  tenore  ;  the 
Bear,  the  Pleiades,  and  all.  Under  the  circumstances,  and  with 
no  opportunity  for  rehearsal,  I  am  persuaded  that  the  whole  con 
cert  was  as  well  '  got  up'  as  could  have  been  expected  in  the 
case,  and  at  so  short  a  notice. 

*  Rev.  ORVILLE  DEWEY  ;  who  suggested,  in  a  secular  address,  that  the  whistle 
of  the  locomotive  might  yet  give  place  to  a  safety-valve  that  should  *  discourse 
most  excellent  music.'  EDITOR. 


256  OLLAPODIANA. 

I  HAVE  turned  this  subject  of  steam-music  extensively  over  in 
my  mind,  of  late  ;  and  I  have  married  myself  to  the  idea,  after  a 
very  short  courtship,  that  it  is  a  kind  of  thing  that  must  go  on. 
At  the  first  blush,  indeed,  it  might  appear  chimerical ;  but  I  ask 
the  skeptic  why  the  steam-whistle  of  a  locomotive  should  not  dis 
course  in  tones  more  soft  and  winning  ?  Why  can  not  a  loco 
motive  ask  a  cow  to  leave  a  railroad  track  in  a  politer  manner 
than  in  that  discordant  shriek,  which  excites  the  animal's  indig 
nation,  and  awakens  her  every  sentiment  of  quadrupedal  inde 
pendence  ?  I  protest  against  such  conduct.  We  presume  a  lo 
comotive  to  buzz,  and  vapor,  and  deport  itself  pragmatically  ;  but 
its  conversation  by  the  way  ought  to  be  chastened  into  something 
like  propriety ;  and  please  Apollo,  I  think  it  will.  I  once  saw 
an  animal  of  this  stamp  killed  instantly  by  the  crushing  transit  of 
a  train  ;  and  I  thought  I  saw  in  the  singular  turn  of  her  upper 
lip,  as  her  torn-out  heart  lay  yet  palpitating  on  the  rails,  a  pecu 
liar  curl  of  disdain,  in  her  dying  moments,  at  the  treatment  she 
had  won.  I  put  this  down,  because  I  hope  't  will  be  remember 
ed  as  a  warning  to  whistlers  in  especial,  and  the  great  generation 
of  calves  unborn.  

ON  one  of  those  warm  April-like  afternoons,  with  which,  in 
our  Philadelphia  meridian,  the  fierce  February  chose  to  delight 
us,  as  if  by  contrast,  I  sat  by  my  open  window,  which  com 
mands,  through  and  over  pleasant  trees,  fine  glimpses  of  the 
country :  and 

'  As  the  red  round  sun  descended, 
Mid  clouds  of  crimson  light,' 

I  began  to  feel  coming  upon  me  the  influence  of  a  reverie.  For 
a  long  time,  my  good  friend  whom  I  '  occupy'  at  present  with 
this  matter,  I  have  had  my  day-dreams  sadly  broken  in  upon  ; 
in  the  few  roses  I  have  gathered,  I  have  found  the  cypress  min 
gling  among  their  faded  leaves ;  and  a  voice,  as  from  the  lowly 
leafiness  of  an  autumnal  wilderness,  has  spoken  of  the  lost  and  of 
the  past.  Why  is  it,  that  though  the  mind  may  wander,  the 
heart  can  never  forget  ?  Well  could  I  say  with  him  who  sings 
so  well : 

*  THOU  unrelenting  Past ! 

Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain ; 
And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 

Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

'  In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown  ;  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea !' 


OLLAPODIANA.  257 

And  there  they  rest  in  dust  and  cold  obstruction  !  Oh,  that 
those  who  walk  about  in  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  with  the 
greenness  of  earth  around  them,  and  the  mysterious  vitality  which 
makes  the  elements  in  their  nostrils,  would  think  of  this ;  con 
sidering  truly  their  coming  end ! 


BUT  I  digress  entirely ;  being  about  to  say,  that  this  reverie 
was  superinduced  by  looking  at  some  observations  that  had  been 
made  upon  the  charming  theory  of  my  friend.  I  thought  of  the 
time  when  such  a  thing  as  steam-music  should  at  least  equal  the 
common  museum-music,  if  not  surpass  it,  and  distance  conclu 
sively  the  airs  wherewith  the  goodly  puritans  of  yore  were  wont 
to  chant  the  immortal  metre  of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins.  Ima 
gination  took  a  wide  range  —  and  presently  I  was  in  a  dream. 

And  methought  in  my  dream,  that  I  was  in  the  second  story 
parlor  of  the  '  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Hotel,  and  United  States' 
Half-way  House,'  on  the  very  top  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
This  hotel  was  built  of  marble,  with  splendid  Corinthian  pillars, 
gracing  a  portico  nearly  three  hundred  feet  long.  Meseemed  I 
had  just  arrived  there  by  rail-road,  in  four  hours  and  a  half  from 
Philadelphia,  which  I  remembered,  as  I  left,  was  on  each  side 
of  the  Schuykill,  that  being  central,  as  the  Thames  is  in  London. 
We  did  not  stop  at  Pittsburgh,  or  any  of  those  immense  metro- 
poles,  but  whizzed  at  the  rate  I  have  mentioned.  My  destination 
was  to  the  city  of  Memphis,  on  the  shore  of  the  Pacific,  where  I 
expected  to  arrive  at  two  o'clock  the  next  day. 

A  considerable  village  stretched  along  the  mountain,  although 
the  place  was  not  in  existence  three  weeks  before.  After  a 
sumptuous  repast,  and  a  beautiful  view  of  the  country,  east  and 
west,  which  I  may  hereafter  describe,  I  took  up  the  village  news 
paper.  It  was  entitled  the  '  New-Babylon  Observer,  and  Regis 
ter  of  the  World.'  The  copy  I  held  in  my  hand  bore  the  date 
of  May  the  seventeenth,  nineteen  hundred  and  forty.  It  was  sent 
round  the  place  by  a  rail-car,  and  was  thrown  into  the  dwellings 
by  machinery,  conducted  by  steam.  The  first  paragraphs  that 
struck  my  eye,  were  these,  amply  emblazoned,  suddenly  to 
catch  the  general  eye  : 

'REPORTED  FOR  THE  NEW-BABYLON  OBSERVER. 


TERRIFIC  CIRCUMSTANCE! 


*  IT  becomes  our  painful  but  imperative  and  extraordinary  duty,  to  pro 
mulgate  the  facts  of  a  disaster  which  reached  us  to-day,  by  the  mail  from 
Thebes,  via  the  perpendicular  railroad.  As  a  party  were  ascending,  with 
the  locomotive  playing  a  lively  tune,  assisted  on  the  piana-forte  by  another 
locomotive,  that  had  been  hired  by  Signor  GOITINI,  preparatory  to  his  first 

17 


258  OLLAPODIANA. 

concert  in  New-Babylon,  some  religious  persons  of  the  «  United  States'  Es 
tablished  Mormon  Church,'  insisted  that  the  tune,  being  irreverent,  should 
be  changed.  This  offensive  tune  was  no  less  than  the  well  known  and 
popular  song,  (supposed  to  have  been  written  in  England,  previous  to  the 
subjugation  of  that  place  by  the  Russians,)  entitled  *  Proceed  it,  ye  Crip 
pled  Ones,  Babylon's  Nigh.'  This  complimentary  course  on  the  part  of 
the  locomotive,  and  the  gentlemanly  engineer  with  whom  it  associates,  was 
hissed  by  the  Mormons,  until  they  were  overcome  by  the  encores  of  the 
majority.  The  locomotive  was  of  course  embarrassed,  but  we  understand, 
continued  to  play.  One  of  the  Mormons,  enraged  beyond  measure  at  this 
circumstance,  rushed  forward  through  the  door-ways  of  the  train,  and  wan 
tonly  turned  the  stop-cock  of  *  What's  become  of  Good  Old  Daniel  ?'  one 
of  the  slowest  tunes  of  the  day.  The  consequence  was,  that  the  train  pro 
ceeded  with  the  greatest  discord,  because  the  latter  tune  was  for  the  back 
track,  in  descending  the  mountain.  The  result  was,  the  cars  were  thrown 
off  the  rails,  down  a  precipice  of  nearly  three  hundred  feet ;  but  owing  to 
the  exertions  of  Mr.  INCLINATION  PLAIN,  first  engineer,  they  were  got 
back  by  his  Upward  Impulse  Screw,  which  has  thus  far  answered  admira 
bly,  stopping  cars  in  mid-air,  if  they  run  off  a  precipice,  and  returning  them 
safely,  by  means  of  the  patent  steam  wind-bags,  which  extend  beneath  the 
trains,  and  destroy  their  gravity. 

*  We  are  authorized  to  state,  that  no  blame  attaches  to  the  quick-tune 

Earty ;  whereas  the  slow-tune  faction  were  entirely  in  the  wrong.  Thus 
as  a  science,  invented  by  a  monk  of  the  Unitarian  order,  in  the  city  of 
Alleghania,  (then  called  New- York,)  and  which  worked  its  way  into  so 
much  respect  and  favor,  been  the  cause  of  danger,  by  the  pertinacity  of  a 
few.  We  trust  it  will  not  occur  again  ;  if  it  do,  we  shall  proclaim  it  to  the 
tune  of  the  Rogue's  March,  through  the  whole  of  New-Babylon,  in  our 
Steam-car  Extra.  No  doubt  our  dastardly  contemporary,  of  the  '  War- 
horse  of  Freedom  and  America's  Champion,'  whose  prospectus  and  types 
arrived  last  night,  and  whose  first  number  appears  to-morrow,  will  endeavor 
to  contradict  this  statement.  We  dare  him  to  his  teeth  to  do  so.  He 
knows,  while  the  snaky  blood  writhes  at  his  caitiff  heart,  and  the  malignity 
of  twenty-three  demons,  (we  think  we  should  be  justified  in  mentioning 
more,)  glares  from  his  diabolic  eye,  that  what  we  state  is  fact ;  and  that 
each  member  of  the  quick-tune  party,  in  asserting  his  inalienable  musical 
rights,  was  as  innocent  as  an  unbegotten  merino.' 


READER,  the  record  of  my  reverie  is  not  ended,  but  my  sheet 
is  full.  If  I  live  and  prosper,  we  will  meet  again.  Heaven  bless 
you,  and  all  the  children !  Ever  thine, 

OLLAPOD. 


THE  END  OF   OLLAPODIANA. 


PROSE  MISCELLAIIES, 


PREFACE 


TO    THE 


PROSE    MISCELLANIES 


IT  is  proper  to  remark,  in  relation  to  the  foregoing  «  Ollapodiana'  Papers, 
as  well  as  of  the  ensuing  Prose  Miscellanies,  that  they  were  all  written  at 
such  stolen  intervals  as  the  sole  editor  of  a  daily  journal  can  command  from 
pressing  avocations.  This  fact,  it  is  hoped,  will  be  taken  into  consideration, 
in  forming  an  estimate  of  the  writer's  powers.  If  these  pages  could  have 
been  carefully  revised  and  pruned  by  his  own  hand,  they  would  doubtless 
have  better  deserved  the  favorable  regard  of  the  public.  There  is  another 
point,  touching  the  accompanying  prose  papers,  on  which  the  Editor  would 
offer  a  word  or  two  in  explanation.  It  was  his  purpose  to  have  presented 
nothing  which  should  have  served  as  a  contrast  to  the  uniformly  amiable 
character  of  his  brother's  writings.  Such  a  contrast  is  perhaps  however 
afforded  by  the  article  on  l  American  Poets,  and  their  Critics.'  But  its  in 
sertion  has  been  advised  by  several  of  the  oldest  and  warmest  friends  of  the 
deceased ;  and  the  Editor  has  not  thought  it  proper  to  resist  their  counsel. 
The  criticism,  indeed,  as  the  reader  can  plainly  see,  was  most  justly  de 
served.  It  was  every  where  welcomed  as  a  felicitous  and  timely  exposure 
of  an  'inveterate  literary  pretender.'  The  New-York  American,  among 
many  other  journals,  eulogized  the  article  as  '  a  capital  paper,  wherein  the 
impostures  of  that  miserable  literary  charlatan,  the  Hibernico-Philadelphia- 
Reviewer,  were  most  humorously  exposed ;'  adding,  that  « the  fact  of  the 
Editor  of  the  'American  Quarterly'  allowing  so  absurd  a  character  to  figure 
in  that  publication,  rendered  him  respectable  enough,  in  a  literary  point  of 
view,  to  receive  a  lashing  in  the  KNICKERBOCKER.'  This  was  the  general 
tone  of  the  American  press.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  observe,  that  the 
*  Leaves  from  an  Aeronaut'  record  the  actual  experience  of  an  aerial  voya 
ger  ;  Mr.  DURANT,  the  American  pioneer  in  aerostatics,  at  the  request  of 
the  writer,  having  furnished  him  with  a  detailed  account  of  the  occurrences 
of  one  of  his  •  flights  into  heaven.'  The  laughable  tale  of « Desperation,*  the 


262  PREFACE. 

writer  was  wont  to  say,  describes  an  actual  occurrence  in  the  life  of  a  Phila 
delphia  student.  Captain  MARRYAT,  some  four  or  five  years  after  the  story 
appeared  in  the  KNICKERBOCKER,  adopted  it  for  a  London  Magazine,  merely 
substituting  English  for  American  localities,  and  slightly  changing  one  or 
two  of  the  minor  incidents.  The  thrilling  events  narrated  in  'An  Old 
Man's  Records'  are  matters  of  history.  'The  Snake  Eater'  is  almost  re 
volting  in  its  opening  revelations ;  it  is  satisfactorily  explained  however  in 
the  conclusion,  and  is,  moreover,  founded  upon  what  was  stated  to  the  wri 
ter  to  have  been  an  actual  occurrence. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES. 


A   CHAPTER   ON   CATS. 

I  MET  with  a  good  article  the  other  day  in  a  native  magazine, 
on  the  subject  of  whiskers  —  a  pilosus  and  prolific  theme.  Talk 
ing  of  whiskers  reminds  me  of  cats.  The  transition  is  natural. 
Feline  quadrupeds  are  justly  celebrated  for  their  claims  to  admi 
ration  in  respect  of  whiskers.  In  the  conformation  of  his  mandi- 
bular  appendages,  Nature  has  been  generous  with  the  cat.  Not 
only  do  they  stand  out  from  his  face  like  the  elongated  mus 
taches  of  old  Shah  Abbas  of  Persia,  but  there  is  within  them  a 
sleepless  spirit,  a  shrewd  and  far  reaching  sense,  which  puts  to 
shame  the  similar  ornaments  on  the  faces  of  bipeds  of  the  gernts 
homo.  They,  indeed,  can  make  their  whiskers  look  well,  by 
baptizing  them  with  can  de  Cologne,  and  Rowland's  Macassar 
Oil,  or  peradventure,  the  unctuous  matter  won  from  the  '  tried 
reins'  of  defunct  bears ;  but  where  is  the  intelligence,  the  dis 
cernment,  of  their  rivals  ? 

The  whiskers  of  a  cat  are  truly  sparse  and  unseemly  ;  but 
their  qualities  of  observation  and  apprehension  furnish  an  ample 
recompense  for  the  absence  of  beauty.  How  many  a  heedless 
rat  or  truant  mouse  has  paid  the  forfeit  of  his  life  by  those  all- 
scenting  properties  which  are  concentrated  in  the  whiskers  of  a 
feline  hunter  !  How  have  their  little  ribs  cracked  between  the 
jaws  of  some  notorious  tabby,  and  their  long  tails  lashed  her 
head  in  the  agonies  of  dissolution  !  This,  however  is  a  painful 
subject,  and  I  perceive  that  in  treating  it  I  am  falling  into  the  sen 
timental. 

Talking  of  sentiment,  as  connected  with  cats,  reminds  me  of  an 
epoch  in  my  life,  over  which  the  shadows  of  unpleasant  fate  hang 
like  clouds  in  an  evening  firmament,  and  turn  the  past  into  dark 
ness.  Shall  I  rend  away  the  veil,  as  your  crack  novelist  would 
say,  and  harrow  up  my  recollections,  until  my  heart  swells  and  my 


264  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

head  aches  with  the  melancholy  retrospection  ?  Perish  the  idea ! 
No —  no  :  prepared  as  I  am  to  go  all  lengths  along  the  fence 
which  divides  me  from  the  dominion  of  memory,  yet  when  I  look 
at  that  length,  I  feel  as  though  I  could  not  '  go  it!'  But — yes  — 
no  matter ;  the  warning  of  my  example  may  be  of  service  to  some 
reader,  who  may  happen  hereafter  to  be  *  situated,  and  I  may 
say,  circumstanced,'  as  I  was. 

I  am  a  respectable  young  bachelor,  with  a  courteous  address,  a 
musical  taste,  some  acquaintance  with  letters,  and  a  too  suscep 
tible  heart.  In  choosing  my  whereabout  in  this  good  city  of 
brotherly  love,  where  I  arrived  a  few  years  ago  from  the  country, 
to  hang  out  my  tin  sign  of  *  Attorney,'  etc.,  I  sought  for  such 
lodgings  as  would  be  convenient  to  the  office,  where  I  wrote  my 
briefs,  and  took  in  my  clients.  Acting  on  this  principle,  I  made 
my  conge  one  bright  May  morning  to  a  landlady  in  Chestnut 
street,  of  whose  table  and  apartments  I  had  heard  the  best  *  ex 
clamation.'  She  was  a  short,  pursy  woman,  with  a  long  neck,  a 
lawn  cap  on  her  head,  and  a  most  respectful  demeanor.  The 
cap  was  thin,  and  the  gray  hair  was  very  perceptible  under  the 
same ;  but  on  her  forehead  were  parted  two  raven  waves  : 

'  the  dowry  of  some  second  head, 

The  skull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre.' 

Pleased  with  her  smile,  for  it  was  benevolence  itself,  I  asked  her 
if  she  could  furnish  me  with  a  small  parlor  and  bed-room  adja 
cent  ?  Her  reply  showed  that  her  benevolence  did  not  extend 
to  her  native  tongue,  which  she  grossly  maltreated  in  divers  hos 
tile  expressions,  then  and  there  used  on  the  premises.  She  re 
sponded  that  the  l  parlors  was  all  took,  but  one  in  the  third  story, 
with  a  bed-room  contagious,  for  which  I  would  be  taxed  five  dol 
lars  and  three  levys  a  week.'  I  replied  that  I  did  not  wish  to  be 
taxed  with  apartments  subject  to  levies  ;  that  the  property  of  which 
I  desired  to  stand  seized  as  tenant,  ought  to  be  unincumbered, 
and  beyond  the  discomfort  of  any  pecuniary  lien  or  claim.  I 
was  soon  eased  on  this  point  by  an  affirmation,  on  the  part  of  the 
respondent,  that  a  levy  was  a  coin  ;  corresponding,  as  1  afterward 
learned  by  some  fiscal  inquiries,  to  a  New- York  shilling. 

A  few  moments'  conversation  in  the  parlor,  into  which  I  was 
invited,  finished  the  business.  I  took  the  lodgings,  and  with 
pleased  alacrity  ensconced  myself  therein.  Every  thing  went  on 
much  to  my  satisfaction.  The  victuals  and  drink  were  praise 
worthy,  the  lodgers  few,  principally  boarding-school  misses,  be 
yond  a  certain  age,  learning  the  then  latest  music,  such  as  *  The 
Minstrel's  Return  from  the  War,7  *  When  my  Eye,'  *  Come  where 


A    CHAPTER    ON    CATS.  265 

the  Aspens  quiver,'  '  Lightly  Tread,'  et  cetera.  With  these  airs, 
accompanying  themselves  on  a  broken-winded  piano,  a  chattel  of 
the  establishment,  did  they  diurnally  bore  my  ears. 

I  soon  became  perfectly  domiciliated.  The  ladies  grew  more 
and  more  communicative  ;  and  it  was  sadly-pleasing,  to  see  the 
pensive  manner  in  which  they  would  flirt  their  fans  when  we  all 
sat  by  the  windows  at  nightfall  in  the  great  parlor  below,  which 
commanded  a  broad  view  of  the  street.  Sometimes  on  these  oc 
casions,  when  in  a  reverie,  I  used  to  hum  some  familiar  air ;  and 
this  once  led  one  of  the  oldest  ladies,  whose  education  had  just 
been  finished  by  the  greatest  instructress  in  the  city,  to  remark 
that  *  she  was  sure  I  could  sing  lovely,  if  I  should  try  ;  but  that 
she  believed  I  did  n't  want  to  let  on.'  I  did  not  at  first  compre 
hend  this  phraseology  of  the  fair  scholar,  and  it  remains  until  this 
day  with  me  a  mystery  undefined.  It  is  understandable,  but  not 
explainable.  I  made  an  answer  to  the  remark,  that  was  apposite 
enough  not  to  expose  my  ignorance  of  the  lady's  meaning ;  for  it 
is  well  to  stand  high  in  the  estimation  of  those  who  are  com 
pleted  in  'composition,  drawing,  geography,  and  the  use  of  the 
globes.' 

I  did  not  however  bless  the  parlor  with  much  of  my  presence. 
The  one  which  had  been  assigned  me  was  a  perfect  gem  of  an 
apartment.  Everything  in  it  was  neat ;  and  I  took  no  small  de 
light  in  hanging  it  with  paintings  and  pictures.  It  looked  di 
rectly  into  Chestnut-street,  our  Philadelphia  Broadway,  and  I  was 
wont  to  sit  by  the  casement  in  the  summer  twilight,  listening  to 
the  negligent  footfalls  of  the  promenaders,  who  strolled  abroad  on 
the  thousand  errands  and  purposes  of  business  or  pleasure. 
Directly  to  the  east,  a  door  opened  into  my  bed-room,  the  con 
tagious  apartment  of  which  my  landlady  had  spoken.  Here  the 
window  looked  into  a  garden,  the  property  of  the  next  resident 
on  the  street.  And  a  fine  garden  it  was.  Flowers  of  every  hue, 
the  first  and  fairest  of  the  year,  were  glowing  along  the  walks  in 
red,  golden,  and  purple  luxuriance.  The  verdant  and  ductile 
vines  gadded  over  tasteful  trellices,  and  the  breath  of  growing 
things  floated  up  to  my  casement  like  incense. 

Perhaps  the  reader  may  desire  to  know  what  this  has  to  do 
with  the  subjects  of  cats  ?  You  shall  see  anon.  The  facts  are 
extant,  and  must  not  remain  unwritten. 

I  soon  found  my  bed-room  contagious,  sure  enough.  I  could 
not  study,  because  of  a  fair  dulcinea  across  the  garden.  Even  at 
night  we  used  to  look  at  each  other.  It  was  a  kind  of  indistinct, 
moonshiny  speculation,  it  is  true — but  it  had  its  raptures. 

My  inquiries  respecting  the  damsel  were  of  the  most  satisfac- 


266  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

torykind.  Her  name  was  Florence  Dillon.  She  was  just  seven 
teen  ;  amiable,  and  accounted  rich,  but  for  the  latter  considera 
tion  I  cared  not  a  rush  when  connected  with  her.  It  was  a 
source  of  unbounded  perplexity  to  me  how  I  should  manage  to 
make  her  acquaintance.  I  consorted  with  few  of  those  young 
men,  wearing  bushy  whiskers,  white  inexpressibles,  vacant  coun 
tenances,  and  small  canes,  with  which  Philadelphia  abounds  ;  for 
I  had  never  fancied  their  amusements  of  riding  to  the  Lamb 
tavern  for  a  julep,  fighting  dung-hill  fowls  on  the  Schuylkill,  or 
playing  at  faro  in  the  obscure  dens  and  alleys  of  the  town.  Be 
ing  unaccomplished  in  these  fashionable  amusements,  and  withal 
rather  addicted  to  reading  and  mental  improvement,  my  asso 
ciates  were  limited,  for  I  found  few  spirits  either  choice  or  con 
genial. 

Finally,  a  lucky  chance  favored  my  desires.  I  saw  Miss 
Florence  one  evening  at  the  theatre,  with  her  brother.  Just  at 
the  close  of  the  first  play,  it  came  on  to  rain.  I  ascertained  by 
accident  that  the  Dillons  were  without  an  umbrella.  I  knew  they 
had  a  very  short  distance  to  go,  and  therefore  would  not  be  likely 
to  call  a  coach.  I  immediately  rushed  home  and  procured  my 
own  umbrella,  and  one  in  addition.  When  I  returned,  the  green 
curtain  had  dropped,  and  they  were  in  the  lobby,  on  the  point  of 
departure.  The  shower  was  then  at  its  height.  It  was  one  of 
those  nights  when  play-bill  boards  are  dripping;  when  pedestrians, 
swift  in  locomotion,  are  seen  in  long  perspective  along  the  streets, 
with  their  umbrellas  shining  in  the  lamp-light ;  a  doleful  night, 
especially  at  the  theatre, 

'When  tender  Beauty,  looking  for  her  coach, 
Protrudes  her  gloveless  hand,  perceives  the  shower, 
And  draws  the  tippet  closer  round  her  throat : 
Perchance  her  coach  stands  half  a  dozen  off, 
And  ere  she  mounts  the  step,  the  oozing  mud 
Soaks  through  her  pale  kid  slipper.     On  the  morrow 
She  coughs  at  breakfast,  and  her  gruff  papa 
Cries,  'There  you  go  !  this  comes  of  play-houses  !' 

Determined  to  be  gallant,  yet  coloring  a  little  at  my  boldness,  I 
took  the  liberty  of  offering  my  umbrella  to  the  gentleman,  giving 
him  at  the  same  time  some  information  respecting  its  necessity 
on  account  of  the  weather.  My  impression  is  that  my  manner 
was  agreeable,  for  Miss  Dillon  surveyed  me  with  a  very  affec 
tionate  recognition ;  and  her  soft  blue  eyes,  shaded  by  rich  brown 
hair,  parted  on  her  beaming  brow,  were  filled  with  what  Thom 
son  would  call  <  lively  gratitude.' 

I  called  the  next  evening  at  Dillon's,  per  promise,  for  my  um 
brella.  I  found  the  family  most  agreeable.  The  mother  was 


A    CHAPTER    ON    CATS.  267 

delighted  to  hear  me  praise  her  favorite  minister,  after  I  found 
out  who  he  was ;  and  the  father  was  what  is  now-a-days  called 
'  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school ;'  namely,  one  whose  education 
has  been  wofully  neglected,  but  whose  assaults  upon  the  venacu- 
lar  are  overlooked  on  account  of  his  good  nature,  good  dinners, 
and  good  wine. 

Thenceforth  I  was  a  faithful  visitor  two  or  three  times  a  week. 
I  grew  desperately  enamored  —  my  passion  was  returned  :  I  was 
a  happy  youth ;  I  walked  among  the  stars.  I  bent  my  soul  to 
distinction  in  my  calling,  and  resolved  to  merit  my  mistress  be 
fore  I  won  her,  or  to  amass,  in  the  words  of  Diggory's  adviser  in 
the  play,  '  summat  to  make  the  matrimonial  pot  boil.' 

The  charming  Florence  was  amiability  itself.  I  found  her  af 
fections  were  so  exuberant,  that  she  bestowed  them  upon  every 
thing  within  the  magic  circle  of  her  presence  —  even  upon  ani 
mals.  Among  the  objects  of  her  esteem  was  a  cat ;  a  beautiful, 
tortoise-shell  creature,  I  confess,  but  deserving  the  objection 
which  the  housemaid  preferred  against  her,  of  having  '  never  had 
no  broughtage  up.'  She  had  been  Miss  Dillon's  companion 
from  her  childish  years,  and  had  grown  to  graceful  and  dignified 
maturity  under  her  fostering  hand.  I  will  not  deny  that  I  re 
spected  the  old  tabby  for  her  sake.  We  used  to  discuss  her 
merits  often.  I  little  thought  the  venerable  quadruped  would 
blight  my  hopes,  and  precipitate  all  my  wo. 

Florence  and  myself  were  soon  accounted  engaged.  We  used 
to  walk  arm  in  arm  in  the  street,  to  let  the  gossips  know  that  such 
was  the  fact.  I  plunged  like  a  gladiator  into  the  law ;  I  was  a 
favorite  at  court ;  and  my  causes  and  fees,  in  hand  and  in  pros 
pect,  were  neither  few  nor  small. 

I  am  subject,  in  summer,  to  restlessness.  Thick-coming  fan 
cies  mar  my  rest,  and  my  ear  is  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  least 
inappropriate  sound.  One  sultry  evening  in  July,  I  returned 
home  later  than  usual,  from  an  arbitration,  wherein  I  lost  a  cause 
on  which  I  had  counted  certainly  to  win.  I  suspect  I  bored  the 
arbitrators  with  too  long  a  plea,  and  too  voluminous  quotations 
of  precedents  ;  for,  when  I  finished,  two  were  asleep,  and  most 
of  the  others  yawning.  They  decided  against  my  client,  and  I 
came  home  mad  with  chagrin,  and  crept  into  bed,  longing  for 
speedy  oblivion  in  the  arms  of  Sleep. 

But  that  calm  sister  of  death  would  not  be  won  to  my  embrace. 
I  lay  tossing  for  a  long  time  in  *  restless  ecstacy,'  until  vexed  and 
overwearied  nature  at  last  sunk  to  repose.  I  could  not  have 
slumbered  over  ten  minutes,  before  I  was  awakened  by  the  most 
outrageous  caterwauling  that  ever  stung  the  human  ear.  I  arose 


268  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

in  a  fury,  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  All  was  still.  The 
cause  for  outcry  appeared  to  have  ceased.  Now  and  then  there 
was  a  low,  gutteral  wail,  between  a  suppressed  grunt  and  a  squeal; 
but  it  was  so  faint  that  nothing  could  have  lived  'twixt  that  and 
silence.  After  a  listening  probation  of  a  few  minutes,  I  slunk 
back  into  my  sheets. 

I  had  scarcely  dozed  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  obnox 
ious  vociferations  arose  again.  They  were  fierce,  ill-natured,  and 
shrill.  I  arose  again,  vexed  beyond  endurance.  All  was  quiet 
in  a  moment.  I  am  not  given  to  profanity  ;  I  deem  it  foolish 
and  wicked ;  but  on  this  occasion,  after  stretching  my  body  like 
a  sheeted  ghost,  half  out  of  the  window,  and  gazing  into  the 
shadows  of  the  garden  to  discover  the  object  of  my  annoyance,  I 
exclaimed,  in  a  loud  and  spiteful  voice,  which  expressed  my  con 
centrated  hate  : 

1D — n  that  cat  /' 

*  Young  gentleman,'  said  a  passing  guardian  of  the  night,  from 
the    street,  '  you  had  better  pop  your  head  in,  and  stop  your 
noise..     If  you  do  n't,  you  will  rue  it ;  now  mind-I-tell-ye.' 

*  Look  here,  old  Charley,'  said  I,  in  return,  '  do  n't  be  im 
pertinent.     It  is  your  business  to  preserve  the  peace,  and  to  ob 
viate  every  evil  that  looks  disgracious  in  the  city's  eye.     You 
guard  the  slumbers  of  her  citizens  ;  and  if  you  expect  a  dollar 
from  me  at  Christmas,  for  the  poetry  in  your  next  annual  address, 
you  will  perform  what  I  now  request,  and  what  it  is  your  solemn 
and  bounden  duty  to  do.      Spring  your  rattle  ;  comprehend  that 
vagrom  cat,  and  take  her  to  the  watch-house.     I  will  appear  as 
plaintiff  against  the  quadruped,  before  the  mayor,  in  the  morning. 
Her  character  is  bad — her  habits  are  scandalous.' 

'  Oh,  pshaw !'  said  the  watchman,  and  went  clattering  up  the 
street,  singing  «  N'hav  pa-a-st  dwelve  o'glock,  and  a  glowdee 
morn.' 

I  reverted  to  my  pillow,  and  fell  into  a  train  of  conjectures 
touching  the  grimalkin.  Possibly  it  might  be  the  darling  old 
friend  of  Miss  Dillon.  Then  I  thought  of  others — then  I  slept. 

I  can  not  declare  to  a  second  how  long  my  fitful  slumber  last 
ed,  before  I  was  startled  from  my  bed  by  a  yell,  which  proceeded 
apparently  from  a  cat  in  my  room.  I  had  just  been  dreaming  of 
a  great  mouser,  with  ears  like  a  jackass,  and  claws,  armed  with 
long  '  pickers  and  stingers,'  sitting  on  my  bosom,  'and  sucking 
away  my  breath.  I  sprang  at  once  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 
I  searched  everywhere  —  nothing  was  in  the  apartment.  Then 
there  rushed  toward  the  zenith  one  universal  cat-shriek,  which 
went  echoing  off  on  the  night-wind  like  the  reverberation  of  a 
sharp  thunder-peal. 


A   CHAPTER   ON    CATS.  269 

'  ?:,* 

y  blood  was  now  up  for  vengeance.  One  hungry  and  fiery 
wish  to  destroy  that  diabolical  caterwauler,  took  possession  of  my 
soul.  At  that  instant  the  clock  struck  one.  It  was  the  death- 
knell  of  the  feline  vocalist.  I  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  in 
the  light  of  a  stray  lot  of  moonshine,  streaming  through  the  tall 
chimneys  to  the  south-east,  I  saw  Miss  Dillon's  romantic  favorite, 
alternately  cooing  and  fighting  with  a  large  mouser  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  that  I  had  seen  for  several  afternoons  previous,  walking 
leisurely  along  the  garden  wall,  as  if  absorbed  in  deep  meditation, 
and  forming  some  libertine  resolve.  In  fine,  they  each  seemed 
saturate  with  the  spirit  of  the  Gnome  king,  Umbriel,  in  the  drama, 
when  he 

« stalked  abroad, 

Urging  the  wolf  to  tear  the  buffalo.' 

The  death  of  one  of  these  noisy  belligerents  being  determined  on, 
I  looked  round  my  room  for  the  tools  of  retribution.  Not  a  movea- 
ble  thing,  however,  could  I  discover,  save  a  new  pitcher,  which 
had  been  sent  home  that  very  day,  and  to  which  my  name  and 
address  were  appended  on  a  bit  of  card.  I  clutched  it  with  des 
perate  fury,  and  pouring  into  my  bowl  the  water  contained  in  it, 
I  poised  it  in  my  hand  for  the  deadly  heave.  I  had  been  a  mem 
ber  of  a  quoit  club  in  the  country,  and  the  principles  of  a  clever 
throw  were  familiar  to  me.  I  resolved  to  make  the  vessel  de 
scribe  what  is  called  in  philosophy  a  parabolic  curve,  so  that  while 
it  knocked  out  the  brains  of  one  combatant,  it  should  effectually 
admonish  the  survivor  of  the  iniquity  of  his  doings.  I  approach 
ed  the  window — balanced  the  pitcher — and  then  drave  it  home. 
Its  reception  was  acknowledged  by  a  loud,  choking  squall — a 
faint  yell  of  agony,  and  then  a  respectful  silence.  Satisfied  that 
my  pitcher  had  been  broken  at  the  fountain  of  life,  and  that  the  si 
lent  tabby  would  not  soon  tune  her  pipes  again,  I  retired  to  bed, 
and  slept  with  the  serenity  and  comfort  of  one  who  is  conscious  of 
having  performed  a  virtuous  action. 

In  the  morning,  the  cat  was  found  '  keeled  up'  on  a  bed  of 
pinks,  with  her  head  broken  in,  and  her  ancient  and  venerable 
whiskers  dabbled  in  blood.  The  shattered  pitcher  lay  by  her 
side.  The  vessel  had  done  its  worst — so  had  my  victim.  The 
body  was  taken  off  early  in  the  forenoon,  and  decently  interred 
by  the  gardener,  who  said  to  the  chambermaid  in  my  hearing, 
that  '  Miss  Florence  must  n't  not  by  no  means  whatsomever  come 
for  to  know  that  the  old  puss  had  gone  the  v'yage.'  Stupid 
hind  !  He  neither  knew  the  cause  of  the  animal's  death,  nor  the 
impossibility  of  its  concealment. 

Sorrow  is  always  communicative.     Betty  had  scarcely  made 


270  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

the  beds  in  the  mansion,  before  she  hied  to  Miss  Florence's  apart 
ment,  and  related  to  her  the  doleful  demise  of  her  spotted  com 
panion.  They  forthwith  descended  together  into  the  garden  ;  re 
connoitred  the  spot  where  the  poor  thing  breathed  her  last,  and 
found  rny  broken  pitcher  with  the  card  attached,  on  the  very  the 
atre  of  destruction. 

Suspicion  was  aroused.  I  was  the  object.  Circumstantial 
evidence  was  clear  against  me.  When  1  went  home  to  dinner,  I 
found  a  note  from  Florence,  accusing  me  of  the  murder.  I  could 
have  turned  state's-evidence,  and  poured  the  tide  of  obloquy  upon 
the  vile  paramour  of  the  deceased  ;  but  I  scorned  all  subterfuge. 
I  answered  the  note  immediately,  acknowledging  that,  in  a  mo 
ment  of  bewilderment,  drowsiness,  and  passion,  I  perpetrated  the 
deed,  and  throwing  myself  upon  her  generosity  for  pardon. 

But  it  was  in  vain.  I  had  made  a  wrong  throw.  Another  angry 
note  reached  me  at  supper.  This,  I  was  determined  to  answer 
in  person,  and  called,  as  soon  as  tea  was  over,  in  a  state  of  pro 
fuse  perspiration,  to  effect  that  object. 

I  found  Miss  Dillon  perfectly  furious.  Her  fair  face  was  red 
with  indignation  ;  consuming  fires  flashed  from  her  eyes  —  those 
orbs  which  I  had  praised  so  often,  and  which  were  wont  to  ex 
hibit  only  the  light  of  *  generous  meanings.'  She  inexorably  re 
fused  all  attempts  at  an  apology.  She  gave  me  back  my  minia 
ture  and  ring,  and  protested  that  I  might  spare  myself  any  fur 
ther  concern  on  her  account.  She  was  deeply-read  in  elemen 
tary  school-books,  and  she  quoted  copiously  from  a  didactic 
piece  in  one  of  them,  I  think  the  American  Preceptor,  '  On 
Cruelty  to  Animals,'  in  which  it  is  conclusively  shown  that  the 
man  who  would  harm  '  a  necessary  cat,'  would  not  scruple  to 
treat  his  father  like  a  pickpocket,  his  wife  like  a  fisherwoman,  and 
his  children  like  puppies.  She  repeated  that  she  had  done  with 
me,  and  signified  a  hope  that  I  would  take  that  remark  for  her 
ultimatum. 

Just  after  supper,  of  a  July  evening,  a  young  man  does  not 
feel  cool  enough  to  pocket  the  slightest  contumely.  I  arose 
with  great  dignity,  and  told  Miss  Dillon,  that  I  had  no  desire  to 
press  my  suit ;  that  if  she  demurred,  I  was  ready  to  confess  the 
judgment,  and  bow  to  the  same.  I  observed  that  from  the  speci 
mens  of  her  temperament  that  had  just  then  fallen  under  my  no 
tice,  I  could  have  little  regret  in  sundering  a  chain  which  had 
altered  so  soon  from  silk  to  iron.  Memory  began  to  disturb  my 
feelings,  and  the  thought  of  what  I  was  about  to  lose,  made  my 
voice  womanish  ;  so  I  cocked  my  hat  on  fiercely,  bowed  politely, 
and  walked  rapidly  out  of  the  apartment  with  the  tread  of  a  sullen 


A    CHAPTER    ON    CATS.  271 

stage  hero,  who  mutters  in  soliloquy,  and  '  dialogues  with  his 
shadow.' 

Since  that  period,  I  have  been,  in  the  main,  a  melancholy  man. 
I  am  pale,  and  cynical.  The  *  opposite  sex,'  as  Mrs.  Trollope 
calls  them,  charm  me  not  as  of  yore.  I  am  a  waif  upon  the  com 
munity,  wherein  none  take  an  interest.  I  loved  Florence  Dillon 
as  I  shall  never  love  again  ;  and  the  cause  of  our  disunion — a 
nullifying  cat — has  given  me  a  sovereign  antipathy  to  all  the 
race.  I  have  no  ill-will  against  young  kittens,  with  their  tender 
voices  and  affectionate  eyes  ;  and  I  can  contemplate  even  an  old 
cat  in  the  virtuous  retirement  of  the  country,  purring  drowsily  by 
a  winter's  fire,  with  some  complacency.  Then,  the  tenor  of  her 
life  is  equable  and  innocent.  She  is  not  subject  to  be  led  away 
after  fantastical  delights  ;  she  goeth  not  into  temptation.  But 
your  city  grimalkins  have  no  moral  character.  Their  habits  are 
loose — their  clamors  unceasing.  Romantic  appointments  by 
night,  and  household  pilferings  by  day,  make  up  their  existence : 
and  the  only  time  they  are  harmless,  is  in  those  fitful  moments 
when 

« their  little  life, 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.' 

They  fight  and  bustle  like  those  celebrated  Kilkenny  combat 
ants,  which  ate  each  other  up  in  such  wise  that  not  the  tail-end 
of  either  remained  for  a  token  of  victory  ;  '  that  died  and  left  no 
sign.'  They  creep  into  cradles,  and  feed  upon  the  fragrant 
breath  of  young  children  ;  and  a  fatal  instance  of  this  kind  was 
recorded  in  our  newspapers  only  a  few  months  ago.  If  well 
used,  they  grow  familiar,  and  strew  your  garments  with  a  bequest 
of  hairs ;  if  you  maltreat  them,  or  despitefully  use  them,  they 
will  waste  the  night-watches  in  mewing  to  keep  you  awake. 

It  is  well  to  evoke  consolation  even  from  trouble.  I  know 
some  good  jokes  of  cats,  which  I  can  enjoy,  even  though  I  know 
that  my  Florence  is  the  wife  of  a  stupid  old  bachelor  —  an 
*  eligible  match,' — a  man  with  his  brains  in  his  purse,  and  his  at 
tainments  in  his  breeches'  pocket ;  in  brief,  a  dough-head  of  the 
heaviest  description.  Yes  !  thank  old  Time,  I  am  better  than  I 
was  when  I  was  so  love-sick.  A  good  story  pleases  me  of  late, 
as  it  did  in  my  better  days.  Here  is  one,  which  excited  my 
cachinations.  I  will  vouch  for  its  truth. 

An  anonymous  wag  not  long  ago  placed  an  advertisement  in  each 
of  our  city  journals,  signed  by  an  eminent  house  on  the  Delaware 
wharf,  and  stating  that  FIVE  HUNDRED  CATS  were  wanted  im 
mediately  by  the  firm.  The  said  firm  in  the  meantime  knew 
nothing  of  the  matter. 


272  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

On  visiting  their  counting-house  the  next  morning,  the  partners 
found  the  streets  literally  blocked  up  with  enterprising  cat-sellers. 
Huge  negroes  were  there,  each  with  ten  or  fifteen  sage,  grave 
tabbies  tied  together  with  a  string.  Old  market  women  had 
brought  thither  whole  families  of  the  feline  genus,  from  the  super 
annuated  Tom,  to  the  blind  kitten.  The  air  resounded  with  the 
squallings  of  the  quadrupedal  multitude.  New  venders,  with 
their  noisy  property,  were  seen  thronging  to  the  place  from  every 
avenue. 

*  What  '11  you  guv  me  for  this  'ere  lot  ?'  said  a  tall  shad-wo 
man,  pressing  up  toward  the  counting-room.     *  The  newspapers 
says  you  allow  liberal  prices.     I  axes  a  dollar  a  piece  for  the 
old  'uns,  and  five  levys  for  the  kittens.' 

*  You  have  been  fooled,'  said  the  chief  partner,  who  appeared 
with  a  look  of  dismay  at  the  door,  and  was  obliged  to  speak  as 
loud  amid  the  din  as  a  sea-captain  in  a  storm.     '  I  want  no  cats. 
I  have  no  use  for  them.     I  could  not  eat  them.     I  could  n't 
sell  them.     I  never  advertised  for  them.' 

A  decided  mendicant,  a  member  of  the  great  family  of  loaf 
ers,  with  a  red,  bulgy  nose,  and  bloated  cheeks,  who  had  three 
cats  tied  to  a  string  in  his  hand,  now  mounted  a  cotton  bale,  and, 
producing  a  newspaper,  spelt  the  advertisement  through  as  audi 
bly  as  he  could  under  the  circumstances,  demanding  of  the  as 
sembly  as  he  closed,  'if  that  there  advertysement  was  n't  a  true 
bill  ?'  An  unanimous  *  Sarting  !'  echoed  through  the  crowd. 
Encouraged  by  the  electric  response,  the  loafer  proceeded  to 
make  a  short  speech.  He  touched  upon  the  rights  of  trade,  the 
liberty  of  the  press,  the  importance  of  fair  dealing,  and  the  bene 
fits  of  printing ;  and  concluded  by  advising  his  hearers  to  go  the 
death  for  their  rights,  and  '  not  to  stand  no  humbug.'  Such  was 
the  effect  of  his  eloquence,  that  the  firm  against  which  he  wielded 
his  oratorical  thunder,  found  it  necessary  to  compromise  matters 
by  treating  the  entire  concourse  to  a  hogshead  of  wine.  The 
company  separated  at  an  early  hour,  consoled  for  the  loss  of 
their  bargains  and  the  emptiness  of  their  pockets,  by  the  light- 
sorneness  of  their  heads  and  hearts. 

Gentle  Reader,  —  my  tale  is  told.  If  you  love  cats,  I  have  no 
objection,  because  it  is  none  of  my  business.  *  De  gustibus,'  etc. 
But  if  I  have  not  deposed  enough  to  justify  my  hatred  of  all  the 
tribe,  then  argument  is  powerless,  and  truth  a  matter  of  moon 
shine. 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.        273 


AMERICAN   POETS,  AND    THEIR   CRITICS. 

THIS  is  some  fellow, 

Who,  having  been  praised  for  bluntness,  doth  affect 
A  saucy  roughness,  and  constrains  the  garb, 
Quite  from  his  nature  :  He  cannot  flatter,  he  ! 
An  honest  mind  and  plain  —  he  must  speak  truth: 
An'  if  they  take  it,  so  ;  if  not,  he's  plain. 
These  kind  of  knaves  I  know,  which  in  this  plainness 
Harbor  more  craft  and  more  corrupter  ends, 
Than  twenty  upright,  careful  observants, 
Who  weigh  the  matter  nicely.  SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  fact  is  as  undeniable  as  it  is  generally  acknowledged,  that 
since  the  death  of  Lord  Byron,  the  best  fugitive  poetry  of  the 
United  States  has  been  greatly  superior  to  that  of  England.  We 
have  bards  among  us  whose  productions  would  shine  by  the  side 
of  seven-tenths  even  of  the  authors  collected  in  those  ponderous 
tomes  entitled  the  '  British  Classics,'  or  *  Select  British  Poets.' 
Let  any  reader  of  taste  look  over  those  collections,  and  see  how 
much  matter  there  is  in  them,  of  no  superior  merit,  floating 
down  the  stream  of  time,  like  flies»in  amber,  only  because  it  is 
bound  up  with  productions  of  acknowledged  and  enduring  excel 
lence.  Let  a  reader  glance,  for  example,  at  the  volume  of  Aikin 
or  even  of  Hazlitt — though  that  is  less  exceptionable  —  and  he 
will  find  many  effusions,  whose  authors,  permissively,  are  almost 
sanctified  to  fame,  that  are  yet  greatly  inferior  to  no  small  portion 
of  American  fugitive  poetry.  This  may  not  at  present  be  readily 
acknowledged  ;  because  it  is  a  weakness  of  human  nature,  that 
men  are  apt  to  attach  far  less  credit  to  the  productions  of  con 
temporary  writers,  than  each  of  those  same  writers  and  his  pro 
ductions  receive,  after  the  palsy  of  death  has  descended  upon  the 
hand  that  recorded,  and  the  heart  that  indited. 

We  need  not  cite  examples  in  favor  of  the  foregoing  declara 
tions.  Their  truth,  we  believe,  is  familiar,  both  to  the  American 
public,  and  the  tasteful  readers  of  Europe.  In  speaking  of 
American  poetry,  we  mean  that  which  has  been  produced  by  na 
tives,  born  and  bred ;  not  the  forlorn  effusions  of  certain  trans 
planted  foreigners,  who  have  labored  so  long  and  so  unsuccess 
fully  to  be  numbered  among  the  bright  train  of  native  bards.  We 
mean  the  writers  and  the  products  of '  our  own,  our  native  land.' 
We  feel  a  glow  of  honest  pride  in  their  array.  In  the  works  of 
HILLHOUSE,  we  have  a  strength,  a  finish,  and  a  profoundness  of 
knowledge,  which  strike  the  mind  and  heart  like  the  page  of  a 

18 


274  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

Milton  ;  productions  unsurpassed  by  any  of  recent  origin,  for 
their  correctness,  their  grandeur,  and  beauty.  In  the  effusions 
of  BRYANT,  the  Thomson  of  America,  we  have  those  faithful 
pictures  of  natural  life  and  human  affection,  fraught  with  the 
soundest  philosophy,  which  can  not  fail  or  die.  They  are  des 
tined  to  live  with  the  Seasons;  .to  appeal  with  their  pure  truth 
and  sweet  fidelity,  to  the  intellect  and  love  of  other  generations. 
We  may  mark  in  HALLECK,  the  Byronic  spirit  and  fire  of  song ; 
the  English  undefiled  ;  thrilling  the  bosom  in  his  lyrics,  and 
charming  the  taste  in  his  lighter  lays.  In  PERCIVAL,  may  be 
seen  the  flowing  diction  and  imagery  of  Moore ;  and  in  SPRAGUE, 
a  pathos  and  harmony,  which  Pope  himself  has  never  exceeded. 
Are  not  these  allegations  undeniable?  What  European  trage 
dy,  produced  within  the  last  thirty  years,  is  superior  to  the  Ha- 
dad  of  Hillhouse  ?  What  poet,  in  that  time,  has  surpassed  in 
ease  and  truth  the  best  poems  of  Bryant?  Who,  during  the 
same  space,  abroad  or  at  home,  has  written  a  more  soul-stirring 
lyric  than  Halleck's  Marco  Botzaris  ?  Will  the  best  productions 
of  Percival  suffer  by  a  comparison  with  the  latest,  and  of  course 
the  maturest,  of  Moore  or  Campbell?  W^ill  Byron's  Prize  Ad 
dress  at  Drury  Lane  compare  with  Sprague's  at  the  Park  Thea 
tre  ?  Has  not  the  latter  been  pronounced  every  way  superior, 
even  in  England  ?  We  propose  these  questions  with  pride. 
They  have  already  been  triumphantly  answered  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  other  names,  full  of  promise, 
growing  yearly  more  lustrous  in  our  literary  annals,  to  which  we 
have  not  time  or  space  at  present  to  allude.  They  are  names 
borne  by  scholars  and  men  of  intellect,  whose  busy  pursuits  may 
repress  the  influence  of  song  within  them,  but  can  not  mar  their 
power.  From  them,  and  their  compeers,  something  elevated  and 
lasting  may  in  due  time  be  confidently  expected. 

There  is  one  cause  which  has  perhaps  operated  somewhat 
against  a  proper  appreciation  of  the  writers  we  have  mentioned. 
Their  actual  merits  are  in  our  opinion  undervalued,  on  account 
of  the  complaints  occasionally  made  of  them  by  journalists,  that 
no  one  of  them  .has  produced  a  long  poem.  This  is  very  true  j 
but  we  do  not  conceive  it  necessary  that  a  man  should  create  a 
labored  epic  to  substantiate  a  claim  to  the  character  of  a  first-rate 
poet.  Gray  has  descended  to  posterity,  and  will  go  on  to  other 
ages,  in  his  incomparable  Elegy  ;  Goldsmith  is  not  less  exten 
sively  known  by  his  Hermit,  than  by  his  other  productions ; 
while  Milton,  and  Pope,  and  numerous  others  whom  we  might 
name,  are  commended  to  the  general  world  more  by  passages  in 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.        275 

their  great  works,  than  by  the  entire  works  themselves.  There 
fore  we  may  say  confidently,  that  all  the  native  poets  we  have 
mentioned,  have  written  matter  which  possesses  all  the  elements 
of  perpetuity  ;  poems,  which  though  short,  are  perfect ;  full  of 
nature  and  life,  without  blemish  or  stain. 

That  we  have  such  poets  in  our  country,  and  that  there  are 
those  who,  by  patient  thought,  unobtrusive  study,  and  the  untir 
ing  pursuit  of  knowledge  in  aid  of  their  natural  genius,  are  de 
sirous  to  emulate  such  examples,  until  they  themselves  may  de 
serve  approbation  and  success,  is,  we  believe,  a  source  of  gratifi 
cation  to  the  mind  of  every  American  critic.  The  course  of  our 
highest  authorities  in  literature,  the  North  American  Review 
and  the  Christian  Examiner,  exhibits  a  patronizing  and  dis 
criminating  spirit  in  this  matter,  which  is  worthy  of  all  praise, 
since  it  will  conduce  in  an  eminent  degree  to  the  advancement  of 
polite  letters  in  our  country.  The  editors  of  these  eminent  jour 
nals  in  no  instance  permit  their  pages  to  be  made  the  conduits  of 
private  bile,  and  individual  spleen.  They  judge  with  justice, 
and  in  kindness  they  condemn.  They  permit  no  scribe  who  is 
scouted  by  the  public,  and  whose  name,  when  known,  is  an  anti 
dote  to  his  adverse  opinions,  to  sully  their  leaves  with  the  sug 
gestions  of  envious  and  revengeful  sentiment,  the  results  of  dis 
appointed  authorship,  and  a  galling  sense  of  personal  obscurity. 
They  look  to  the  promise  of  native  works,  and  exhibit  that  good 
sense  and  feeling  by  whose  guidance  they  escape  the  mortifica 
tion  of  seeing  themselves  the  objects  of  ridicule,  and  their  opinions 
utterly  reversed,  both  in  Europe  and  America.  They  are  re 
garded  with  respect,  as  men  above  the  reach  or  the  persuasion 
of  contemptible  motives ;  and  with  the  law  of  courteous  impar 
tiality  guiding  their  pens,  they  perform,  with  honest  impulses, 
their  duty  to  the  literary  efforts  of  their  countrymen. 

It  is  a  matter  of  praise,  also,  that  these  are  gentlemen,  the 
merits  of  whose  productions  entitle  them  to  sit  in  judgment  upon 
the  works  of  others.  Theirs  are  the  benefits  of  an  unbroken 
education ;  the  enlarged  views  and  information  acquired  by 
travel ;  the  proper  sentiments  inspired  by  a  love  of  the  land  of 
their  birth ;  and  the  honest  desire  to  increase  rather  than  dimin 
ish  the  reputation  of  their  fellow-laborers  in  kindred  pursuits. 
This  course  inspires  in  their  contemporaries  throughout  the 
country  a  feeling  of  respectful  confidence,  which  is  the  parent 
and  prompter  of  every  intellectual  undertaking. 

We  sincerely  wish  that  we  might  pursue  this  just  tribute  to 
other  quarters  of  similar  pretensions  ;  but  we  find  it  impossible. 
Two  quarterlies  remain — the  United  States  and  the  American 


276  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

Reviews,  both  of  Philadelphia.  The  former  has  as  yet  put  forth 
but  one  number,  which  is  highly  national  and  liberal  in  its  char 
acter,  and  promises  well  for  those  which  are  to  succeed  ;  but  the 
work  has  not  existed  long  enough  to  merit  the  praise  which  we 
do  not  doubt  it  will  deserve  and  receive.  The  American  Quar 
terly  has  struggled  along  in  the  hands  of  different  publishers,  until 
the  present  time.  The  conductor  of  the  work,  very  properly, 
has  always  refrained  from  laying  any  claim  to  consideration  in  the 
matter  of  poetry.  It  has  never  interested  his  mind,  nor  occupied 
his  attention ;  he  professes  to  experience  none  of  its  soul ;  and 
while  the  other  departments  of  his  periodical  are  sustained  with 
a  very  laudable  degree  of  talent,  that  of  poetical  criticism  has 
been  usually  consigned  to  a  person  so  utterly  unfit  for  the  office 
as  to  excite  surprise  and  derision  wherever  his  agency  in  this  di 
vision  of  the  Review  is  known. 

In  discussing  the  merits  of  this  individual — which  we  shall  do 
with  all  possible  gentleness,  consistent  with  the  evils  we  are  to 
expose— we  disclaim  every  sentiment  of  unkindness  or  sinister 
partiality.  We  know  that  in  literature,  as  in  politics,  he  who 
undertakes  to  lead  or  guide,  should  be  able  satisfactory  to  an 
swer  two  questions  that  may  be  asked  concerning  him :  'Is  he 
honest  ?  Is  he  capable  V  We  know  that  poetry  is  an  important 
part  of  belles-lettres ;  and  we  desire  to  see  no  misleading  of  the 
general  mind,  in  relation  to  its  state  and  progress  in  our  republic. 
We  would  invest  this  high  department  of  art  with  a  divine  and 
holy  atmosphere,  into  whose  magic  circle  no  motives  of  envy,  of 
chagrin,  of  policy  or  revenge,  should  be  permitted  to  enter.  If 
we  succeed  in  proving  that  these  incitements  have  hitherto  defiled 
the  oracles  of  criticism,  and  poisoned  the  rich  flow  of  song 
among  us,  then  we  shall  be  amply  repaid  for  the  use  of  the  facts 
we  have  gathered,  and  the  lash  we  wield. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  a  live  critic,  without  some  particulars. 
Johnson  and  Gifford  gave  these,  each  for  himself.  In  the  present 
case  we  shall  eschew  all  personality,  which  we  condemn ;  and  in 
giving  a  few  points  of  an  author,  shall  avoid  touching  the  man. 

Imprimis — there  is,  in  the  city  of  Brotherly  Love,  on  the 
corner  of  one  of  its  rectangular  thoroughfares,  a  small  store,  or 
shop,  in  which  is  sold  Irish  linen ;  whether  ready  made  or  not, 
we  can  not  tell.  It  is  the  mart  of  a  Quarterly  Critic  ;  once  a 
practiser  of  the  Galenian  art,  and  as  we  have  learned,  with  a  suc 
cess  equalling  the  Asclepidae  of  yore.  In  Hibernia  he  was 
4  raised ;'  to  America  he  came ;  in  Philadelphia  he  pitched  his 
tent ;  and  rejecting  physic,  took  to  trade,  in  which  he  now  trans 
acts  a  decent  business,  in  a  small  way.  We  mention  these  bio- 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.        277 

graphical  items  in  the  outset,  as  arguments  that  his  profession  is 
neither  literary  nor  akin  to  it ;  and  that  he  is  consequently  quite 
unable  to  serve  both  Mercury  and  Apollo  at  once. 

Speculation,  however,  is  the  spirit  of  the  age  ;  and  our  Cen 
sor  determined  not  to  be  entirely  occupied  in  the  linen  line. 
Accordingly  he  came  the  evil  eye  over  an  unfortunate  publisher, 
who  consented  to  issue  a  monthly  magazine  and  Review  of  Lit 
erature  under  his  supervision.  Previous  to  this,  we  should  re 
mark,  he  put  forth  a  poem  entitled  '  The  Pleasures  of  Friend 
ship,'  a  mediocre  volume,  containing,  we  venture  to  assert,  more 
palpable  plagiarisms  than  can  be  found  in  any  book  of  its  size 
in  Christendom.  The  magazine  was  begun ;  and  with  it  began 
the  criticisms  of  the  editor.  Beside  these  operations,  he  had 
other  irons  in  the  fire  ;  he  had  novels  in  embryo.  Before  al 
luding  to  these,  we  will  show  the  gradations  by  which  our  critic 
rose  to  the  acquisition  of  his  present  acumen  as  a  quarterly  re 
viewer. 

When  this  monthly  was  in  its  maturity,  the  reputation  of  Lord 
BYRON  was  at  its  height.  They  who  once  blamed,  had  become 
eulogists  ;  the  best  intelligences  of  both  hemispheres  were  warm 
ed  by  his  genius,  and  vocal  in  his  praise.  But  our  profound 
reviewer  cared  for  none  of  these  things.  He  expressed  great 
commiseration  for  the  noble  poet.  He  speaks  of  him  in  his 
work,  as  a  man  '  whose  heavy  volumes  of  stanzas  have  pestered 
the  world  ;  a  mere  titled  rhymester  ;  the  author  of  a  mass  of 
hobbling,  teeth-grinding  poetry;  the  major  portions  of  whose 
writings  possess  not  the  smallest  particle  of  the  soul  of  poetry ;' 
and  after  an  assortment  of  criticisms,  quite  equal  to  the  foregoing, 
he  lumps  the  merits  of  Byron  in  the  following  summary  passagie : 
'  That  in  the  multiplicity  of  his  Lordship's  writings  we  shoujk}, 
by  dint  of  industrious  research,  discover  some  easy  flowing  pas 
sages  and  brilliant  ideas,  is  not  much  to  his  credit  —  for  we  can 
find  the  same  things  in  the  dull  heroics  of  Sir  Richard  Black- 
more.'  Finally,  Byron  is  advised  by  our  Aristarchus,  in  1S24, 
to  quit  poetry,  wherein  he  is  so  deficient,  and  turn  his  attention 
to  prose,  in  which  he  might  hope  for  decent  success ! 

Nothing  seems  to  have  yielded  this  critic  more  unqualified  de 
light  than  the  death  of  Lord  Byron.  It  gave  a  clearer  field  for 
his  publications  ;  it  '  left  the  world  for  him  to  bustle  in.'  His 
ecstacies  on  hearing  of  that  sad  event,  were  irrepressible.  He 
came  forth  with  a  Te  Deum  in  his  Review,  from  which  we  make 
a  few  extracts  :  '  Wo,  now,'  saith  he,  '  to  these  witlings,  (the  ad 
mirers  of  Byron,)  who  have  neither  ears  to  discover  harmony, 
nor  skill  to  count  numbers ;  who  mistake  rhymes  for  wit ;  the 


278  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

Great  Dagon  of  their  idolatry  is  no  more  !  Well  may  they  raise 
the  ul-ul-loo  ;  he  who  bullied  the  crowd  into  the  reading  of  bad 
English,  who  inflicted  upon  men  of  good  taste  the  penance  of  pe 
rusing  hobbling  numbers  and  false  rhymes,  has  withdrawn  from 
the  scene  of  his  exploits  !  Bellow  forth,  ye  rugged  verse  lovers, 
till  ye  split  your  lungs  with  lamentations !  Stiff,  unwieldly  couplets, 
or  barbarous  Spenserians,  made  the  vehicles  of  unnatural  quaint- 
ness  or  affected  originality  of  ideas,  have  no  longer  a  sprig  of  no 
bility  to  dignify  them,  or  give  them  attraction  to  the  unreflecting 
multitude  !' 

Our  Reviewer's  opinions  of  Sir  WALTER  SCOTT,  (a  gentle 
man  of  Abbotsford,  North  Britain,  who  wrote  some  novels  and 
poetry,)  are  kindred  with  those  he  entertained  of  Lord  Byron. 
He  speaks  of  him  as  '  an  unknown  Scotchman ;'  and  of  certain 
Waverley  novels  —  that  received  by  far  the  most  praise  on  their 
appearance,  and  continue  to  be  cherished  with  fond  admiration 
by  every  reader  of  taste  —  as  '  slovenly  and  insipid  productions  ; 
abounding  with  affected  sentimentality,  blackguards  and  scoun 
drels,  common  as  thistles  in  a  Scotch  glen  ;  with  sheepish  he 
roes,  foot-balls  to  every  one  that  might  choose  to  kick  them.' 
These  *  blundering  works,'*  he  condemns  in  toto ;  calls  them 
'  disgraceful  literary  manufactures,  common-place,  and  stupidly 
constructed.'  In  conclusion,  he  gave  it  as  his  candid  opinion, 
that  '  the  sooner  Sir  Walter  Scott  ceased  to  write,  the  better  for 
himself  and  the  public.'  This,  reader,  was  when  the  author  of 
Waverley  was  covered  with  renown,  and  after  he  had  produced 
some  of  his  most  immortal  productions  ! 

It  is  well  known  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  a  fervent  admirer 
and  friend  of  WASHINGTON  IRVING.  His  letter,  warmly  com 
mending  the  efforts  of  our  celebrated  countryman,  published  last 
year  in  a  daily  journal  of  high  authority, f  expressed  the  ardor  of 
the  Baronet's  esteem  and  respect  for  the  author  of  Knickerbocker. 
He  also  applauded  him,  publicly,  in  Peveril  of  the  Peak.  We 
regret  to  say,  that  our  critic  has  as  contemptuous  an  idea  of  Sir 
Walter's  opinions,  as  of  his  works.  We  can  best  show  how 
widely  he  differs  from  the  author  of  Waverley,  respecting  Irving, 
by  quoting  his  opinions  of  that  writer,  as  contained  in  the  Phila 
delphia  Monthly  Review.  In  that  periodical  he  speaks  of  Geof- 

*  So  unbounded  is  the  popularity  of  one  of  these  very  novels;  so  strong  the  hold 
which  it  lias  taken  upon  the  general  reverence;  that  a  large  and  flourishing  town 
has  arisen  where  the  scene  was  laid.  Its  crowded  streets  are  rife  -with  bustle  and 
animation,  and  its  hotels  thronged  continually  with  visitors.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  genius  of  SCOTT,  the  place  would  be  at  this  moment  a  rural  waste. 

f  The  New- York  American. 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.        279 

frey  Crayon  as  a  scribbler  of  l  skip-along,  trim-the  hop,  popinjay 
prose ;  whose  Sketch  Book  abounds  with  heavy,  disagreeable 
matter,  betraying  throughout  little  merit  but  imitation.'  Those 
portions  which  the  world  has  decided  to  be  the  best  and  most 
graphic,  are  pronounced  '  absolutely  silly,  fit  only  for  the  pages 
of  two-penny  primers,  to  amuse  children.'  The  utmost  credit 
conceded  to  Geoffrey,  is  *  that  his  productions  may  possibly  be 
guile  a  dull  hour,  or  please  a  blue  stocking ;  but  farther  than  this 
the  critic  can  recognise  no  merit  in  them.  With  true  Hibernian 
simplicity,  he  asks  respecting  these  eminent  works  :  '  What  les 
son  do  they  teach  ?  What  information  do  they  convey  ?  What 
impression  do  they  make  ?'  and  adds  :  *  We  can  not  see  their 
value.'  He  confesses  that  they  are  popular  and  successful ;  but 
he  imputes  the  cause  to  the  bribery  and  corruption  of  the  Edin 
burgh  and  London  reviewers,  by  the  booksellers,  to  help  Irving 
along! 

A  very  general,  though  it  would  seem  erroneous  impression, 
has  prevailed,  and  is  still  cherished,  both  in  Europe  and  America, 
with  regard  to  the  style  of  Irving.  Ripe  scholars  and  real  critics, 
everywhere,  have  given  their  suffrages  in  favor  of  this  style,  as  pos 
sessing  quiet  sweetness  and  ease  ;  pure  as  the  Latin  in  *  Augustus* 
golden  Age,'  or  the  English,  in  the  Elizabethan.  But  these  men 
have  been  all  in  the  wrong.  Our  Longinus  can  see,  in  this  far- 
famed  style,  neither  comeliness  nor  grace.  He  protests  that  *  it 
reminds  him  of  a  boy  moving  awkwardly  on  stilts,  who  is  strain 
ing  every  nerve  to  prevent  a  downfall !' 

Next  to  Washington  Irving,  in  the  condemnatory  estimation  of 
our  critic,  comes  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER,  who  seems  a 
peculiarly  obnoxious  culprit  in  the  view  of  his  judge.  Fearful 
that  Cooper  would  supplant  some  of  his  own  sublime  novels, 
then  in  process  of  manufacture,  he  pounced  upon  his  rival  right 
greedily.  He  damned  '  The  Pioneers'  at  once,  by  calling  it 
*  unwieldly,  slovenly,  ungrammatical,'  and  insufferable  ;  and  *  as  a 
story,  entirely  destitute  of  interest.'  '  The  Pilot'  suffered  very 
nearly  the  same  fate.  These  works,  however,  yet  survive,  and 
the  reputation  of  the  author  has  recovered  in  a  measure  from  the 
cruel  and  awful  blow  thus  bestowed  upon  its  integrity. 

The  popular  poets  of  the  Union  did  not  escape  the  visitations 
of  our  Reviewer.  He  finished  HALLECK,  in  a  few  words,  by 
pronouncing  him  an  inveterate  doggcrelist ;  '  a  man  capable  of 
throwing  the  most  common  and  contemptible  ideas  into  metre.' 
PERCIVAL  suffers  in  the  same  pillory.  So  great  is  the  furor  of 
the  critic  in  relation  to  this  gentleman,  that  he  delivers  himself  in 
verse.  We  hope  the  reader  will  excuse  the  profanity.  It  is  a 


280  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

way  the  reviewer  has  of  his  own,  and  we  give  his  lines  verbatim : 

4  As  for  our  poets,  d n  them,  one  and  all, 

Except  the  megrim-haunted  PERCIVAL  ; 
For  his  are  lays  that  suit  the  Theban  taste, 
By  sense  unburthened,  nor  by  music  graced.' 

In  further  discussing  Percival's  merits,  this  literary  Daniel 
takes  occasion  to  remark,  that  the  charm,  both  of  prose  and  po 
etry,  is  simplicity ;  and  he  illustrates  this  charm  as  follows : 
*  Mr.  Percival  would  seem  to  think  that  harmony  of  cadence  and 
musical  numbers  were  mere  incumbrances  upon  the  wild,  freedom 
with  which  the  nine  deities  should  be  permitted  to  drag  us  through 
all  the  entanglements  and  confusions  of  an  ill-sorted,  unconnected, 
and  heterogeneous  mass  of  cogitations,  conglomerated  into  one  in 
definable  collection,  by  the  wondrous  instrumentality  of  that  mighty 
father  of  discordance  and  grotesque  originality,  known  by  the 
name  of  haphazard.'  Here  is  the  prose  style  of  this  lover  of 
simplicity ! 

It  gives  us  pleasure  to  turn  from  cast-off  bards,  to  a  poet  who 
has  won  the  suffrages  of  our  critic.  In  a  review  of  the  '  Moun 
tain  Muse,'  (a  crude,  youthful  production,  now  forgotten,  and  of 
which  its  amiable  author,  Mr.  Bryan,  of  Alexandria,  is  heartily 
ashamed,)  he  says,  «  This  poem,  though  long,  manifests  an  im 
mense  genius,  equal  to  that  of  Byron  or  Percival.  In  the  tuneful 
movement  of  his  strains,  Mr.  Bryan  is  much  their  superior.' 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  all  these  consistent  specimens  of 
acumen  did  their  author  no  credit.  He  was  derided  by  the  best 
writers  throughout  the  country.  The  ridicule  he  excited,  awa 
kened  his  angry  muse  ;  he  buried  his  rowels  in  his  Pegasus,  and 
'  rode  in  mud.'  We  doubt  whether  the  most  phrensied  effusions 
of  Nat.  Lee  are  wilder  than  the  doggerels  composed  by  our  au 
thor,  in  reply  to  his  critics.  But  as  some  of  his  own  brain-born 
progeny  were  just  then  extant,  policy  whispered  him  that  he 
should  conciliate  these  high  authorities  in  his  favor.  His  novel 
of  the  Wilderness  had  appeared.  He  had  transported  copies  of 
it  to  the  North  American  Review,  and  was  lookin|  with  painful 
anxiety  to  see  them  duly  lauded.  His  eulogies  upon  that  work, 
therefore,  were  cordial  in  the  extreme.  His  Review  teemed 
with  its  praise.  We  can  only  find  room  for  the  following  sen 
tences  : 

*  The  North  American  is  one  of  the  fairest  Reviews  of  the  day.  It  has  al 
ways  advanced  something  of  its  own,  to  prove  that  it  could  be  boldly  original 
when  it  pleased.  On  the  whole,  we  have  found  a  spirit  of  candor  and  a 
vein  of  good  sense,  generally  to  pervade  the  work,  which  induces  us  to  es 
teem  it  one  of  the  most  useful  publications  of  the  age.' 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.        281 

Whether  the  North  American  Review  appeared  sooner  than 
its  eulogist  expected,  we  know  not ;  but  it  reached  Philadelphia 
before  his  monthly  went  to  press.  It  contained  a  notice  of  the 
Wilderness  ;  but  alas  !  it  was  such  a  one  as  the  author  was  not 
prepared  to  see.  The  Reviewer,  after  a  few  judicious  remarks 
as  to  what  ought  to  constitute  an  American  novel,  thus  analyzes 
the  Wilderness : 

'By  casting  an  eye  over  these  pages,  it  will  be  seen  at  a  glance,  that  the 
art  of  writing  an  American  novel  is  neither  more  nor  Jess  than  the  art  of 
describing,  under  American  names,  such  scenes  as  are  in  no  respect  Ameri 
can,  peopling  them  with  adventurers  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  except 
America,  with  a  native  or  two  here  and  there,  acting  as  no  American  ever 
acts,  and  talking  a  language  which  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  may  pass 
for  American  simply  because  it  is  not  English.  Thus  the  chief  dramatis 
persona  of  the  Wilderness  are  a  Scotch  Irishman,  (ly  which  we  mean  an 
Irishman  who  talks  Scotch,)  an  American  Irishman,  (by  which  we  mean  an 
Irishman  born  in  America,)  with  an  Irish  Irishman,  (by  which  we  mean 
Paddy  himself, )  for  his  servant ;  a  sort  of  mad  Indian,  who  turns  out  to  be 
a  Frenchified  Scotchman  ;  together  with  General  Washington,  and  a  few 
other  mere  nondescripts.  The  plot  is  carried  on  by  means  of  the  wars  of 
the  last  century,  between  the  French  and  English  settlers  of  our  western 
wilderness,  and  the  loves  of  Gen.  Washington,  who  plays  the  double  part  of 
Romeo  among  the  ladies,  and  Alexander  the  Great  among  the  Indians, 
with  signal  success.' 

After  describing  some  of  those  lusus  natures  characters  with 
which  the  Wilderness  abounds,  and  giving  a  slight  insight  into 
its  undefinable  plot,  the  Reviewer  proceeds  : 

'  BUT  it  is  time  to  introduce  another  hero,  who  acts  a  most  conspicuous 
part  in  the  progress  of  the  Tale.  Upon  the  return  of  Mr.  Adderly  (one  of 
the  heroes)  to  Philadelphia,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  an  account  of  himself 
to  the  Ohio  company,  the  governor  of  Virginia  despatches  Mr.  George 
Washington,  who  is  spoken  of  as  'a  very  respectable  looking  young  man,' 
on  an  embassy  to  the  French  government  at  Fort  de  Boeuf,  to  demand  an 
explanation  of  the  recent  outrages  committed  by  his  people  on  the  Indians, 
at  their  instigation,  against  the  British  settlers.  Not  long  after,  as  the  her 
oine  and  Miss  Nancy  Frazier  were  sitting  under  a  tree  together,  as  roman 
tically  as  possible,  Miss  Nancy  listening,  and  Miss  Maria  reading,  '  with  a 
tenderness  and  pathos  of  manner  which  showed  that  her  whole  soul  was  en- 
wrapt  with  the  delightful  strains  in  which  the  poet  of  the  seasons  has  told 
his  sweetest  tale  :' 

4  Maria  had  just  pronounced  the  following  exquisite  lines  : 

'  He  saw  her  charming,  but  he  saw  not  half 
The  charms  her  down-cast  modesty  concealed,' 

when  Nancy  happening  to  direct  her  attention  to  one  side,  perceived  a  white 
man  (the  reader  should  bear  in  mind  that  Washington  was  a  white  man  !) 
leaning  against  a  tree,  scarce  three  yards  distant.  She  immediately  started 
to  her  feet  in  surprise,  crying  out : 

'  Oh !  Maria  !  here  is  a  white  stranger !' 
This  '  white  stranger'  was  Washington.     The  ladies  shortly 


282  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

after  escorted  him  to  their  house.  Here  they  placed  feed  before 
the  Father  of  his  Country,  in  the  shape  of  cakes  and  metheglin. 
The  author  makes  Washington  eat  merely  to  gratify  the  ladies, 
one  of  whom  asks  him,  with  great  tenderness  of  manner,  why  he 
does  not  '  use'  more  of  her  victuals  ?  After  this,  Washington 
becomes  very  intimate  with  Miss  Frazier ;  delivers  long  speech 
es  to  her  whenever  a  chance  offers  ;  fights  Indians  and  makes 
love,  '  off  and  on,'  and  finally  ascertains  that  Miss  Frazier  is  en 
gaged.  The  North  American  Reviewer  gracefully  sums  up  these 
and  ten  thousand  other  improbable  adventures,  such  as  Washing 
ton's  dancing  jigs  at  parties  ;  dressing  in  the  character  of  an  In 
dian  chief,  with  leggins,  porcupine  quills,  etc.,  and  keeping  noc 
turnal  appointments,  while,  to  use  the  words  of  the  author,  '  the 
earth  was  wrapt  in  a  tolerably  thick  mantle  of  darkness.'  The 
Review  is  perfectly  fair  ;  none  of  the  incidents  are  distorted,  and 
the  ridicule  is  natural.  Its  humor  and  justice  were  universally 
acknowledged. 

This  article  changed  the  opinions  of  the  author  of  the  Wilder 
ness,  respecting  the  North  American  Review,  at  once.  Stung 
by  the  ridicule  which  the  paper  on  his  work  excited,  and  panting 
for  satisfaction,  he  came  out,  in  the  self-same  number  containing 
the  plaudits  that  we  have  quoted,  with  the  subjoined  appendix. 
It  is  the  most  notable  specimen  of  word-eating  on  record  : 

'DEGENERACY     OF     THE    NORTH     AMERICAN     REVIEW! 

'In  the  leading  article  of  our  present  number,  we  complimented  this  Re 
view  for  the  honesty  which  it  had  hitherto  displayed  in  its  animadversions 
on  authors.  When  we  committed  that  compliment  to  paper,  we  were  far 
from  expecting  that  we  should  so  soon  have  to  change  our  opinion.  The 
sheet  containing  it,  however,  was  hardly  printed  off,  when  the  Review  for 
the  present  quarter  fell  into  our  hands,  and  afforded  decisive  and  melan 
choly  proof  that  it  no  longer  continued  the  honest  and  able  journal  of  criti 
cism  we  have  so  long  esteemed  it!' 

Pursuing  this  topic  in  the  same  number,  this  author  asks,  with 
a  feeling  of  injured  self-cornplacency  :  *  To  what  principle  in  hu 
man  nature  are  we  to  ascribe  this  ill-natured  feeling  of  the  critics  ? 
It  is  to  envy  ;  it  is  to  a  dread  of  being  surpassed  in  literary  repu 
tation  !' 

The  c  degenerate'  article  of  the  North  American  Review  fin 
ished  our  critic  as  an  author.  The  feebleness  of  his  inventions, 
the  emptiness  of  his  pretensions,  and  his  utter  ignorance  of  every 
attribute  calculated  to  make  a  real  American  novel,  were  fully 
established.  His  self-esteem,  however,  was  insatiable  ;  and  so 
novel  after  novel  oozed  from  his  cerebellum,  and  fell  dead-born 
from  the  press  !  Finally  he  began  to  fancy  that  romance  was 
not  his  forte,  and  renewed  his  suit  with  the  Nine. 


AMERICAN   POETS,    AND    THEIR   CRITICS.        283 

On  this  point  of  evidence  in  his  literary  history,  we  feel  com 
pletely  posed.  We  are  surrounded  with  gems  of  various  waters ; 
we  are  in  a  wilderness  of  flowers  ;  and  how  shall  we  cull  them  ? 
We  feel  like  Franklin's  little  Philosopher,  with  the  superfluous 
apples.  Our  author  has  written  on  all  subjects  ;  on  Ireland,  and 
the  far  West ;  on  the  Sun,  and  also  the  Moon  ;  on  land  and  sea, 
arvorum  et  sidcra  codi.  Our  only  method  is  to  plunge  at  once 
into  this  vast  collection  of  themes,  and  select  the  best.  As  the 
present  month  is  particularly  patriotic  in  its  associations,  we  com 
mence  with  the  following  quatrains.  They  came  out  of  the  au 
thor's  mind,  on  account  of  seeing  some  ladies  *  fetching  a  walk,' 
one  fourth  of  July.  We  have  only  room  for  fragments.  The 
reader  is  desired  to  note  the  numerous  possessives  in  the  first 
verse,  and  the  blending  of  past  and  present  in  the  other  stanza. 
Well  was  it  written  on  the  glorious  Fourth.  It  celebrates  the 
Union  of  the  Tenses  : 

4  Columbia's  fair,  a  lovely  train, 

All  ardent  in  your  country's  cause  ; 
With  Blowing  hearts  ye  join  the  strain, 
That  sings  the  birth  of  freedom's  laws. 

*  *  *  * 

4  Dependent  on  a  stranger's  will, 

Your  sires  long  owned  a  tyrant  lord, 
Their  wrongs  on  wrongs  increasing  still, 
While  tyrants  no  relief  afford.' 

There  are  two  qualities  strikingly  manifest  in  the  critic's  metre ; 
namely,  his  rhyming  words,  and  a  peculiar  system  of  joining  a 
whole  line  together  with  matrimonial  hyphens.  In  an  effusion  on 
Early  Scenes,  he  gives  us  the  subjoined  lines.  It  is  not  for  us 
to  instruct  so  able  a  poet  in  the  art  of  verse  ;  but  we  make  bold 
to  suggest,  that  if  the  o  were  out  of  'joy,'  in  the  annexed  stanza, 
its  rhythmus  would  be  considerably  eased : 

4  For  then,  if  ills  or  fears  invade, 

The  lightsome  spirit  bids  them  fly  ; 
And  then  th'  impressions  strong  are  made, 
Of  ne'er  to-be-forgotten-joy.' 

The  quality  exhibited  in  this  last  line,  to  wit,  that  of  compound 
compression,  by  means  of  the  conjunctive  hyphen,  is  beyond  all 
praise.  We  know  nothing  to  exceed  it,  save  the  remark  of  the 
Morning  Post,  in  Horace  Smith's  Rejected  Addresses,  where 
the  people  are  informed  that  '  they  may  expect  soon  to  be  sup 
plied  with  vegetables,  in  the  in -general -stewed -with -cabbage- 
stalks  -  but-  on  -  Saturday  -  night-  lighted  -  up  -  with  -  lamps  market 
of  Covent  Garden.' 

It  is  perhaps  in  the  elegiac  stanza  that  our  critic's  poetry  runs 


284  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

the  smoothest.  Witness  the  following,  from  a  long  and  a  strong 
strain,  near  the  grave  of  a  rural  poet  in  Ireland.  The  rhyme  is 
ineffably  grand.  The  only  improvement  that  could  be  proposed, 
would  be  to  spell  the  last  word  in  the  first  line,  desarts,  instead 
of  the  present  mode.  We  think  it  might  give  the  metre  a  bene 
fit,  but  we  make  the  suggestion  with  profound  diffidence  : 

'Turn  to  your  hut,  the  falling  roof  deserts — 
There  genius  long  her  darling  will  deplore  ; 
His  country  owned  him  as —  a  man  of  parts  — 
She  owned  him  such  —  but  —  ah  !  she  did  no  more  !' 

No  man  is  fonder  than  our  author  of  a  strain.  It  is  a  constant 
operation  with  him.  Thus  : 

'  to  the  Indian  shines  the  gem  in  vain, 
The  richest  product  of  his  native  fields, 
The  tiger  crushes  with  regardless  strain, 
The  loveliest  flower  the  sylvan  desert  yields.' 

Now  we  are  not  intimate  with  wild  animals,  having  but  a  slight 
menagerie  acquaintance  with  them  :  but  we  believe  the  tiger  must 
be  a  weaker  beast  than  naturalists  are  aware  of,  if  he  is  obliged 
to  strain  much  in  crushing  a  flower. 

Here  comes  a  strain  in  another  verse ;  or  rather  a  verse  in  an 
other  strain : 

'  Now  to  the  lonely  wood  or  desert  vale, 
With  lengthened  stride,  he  hurries  o'er  the  plain  ; 

And  mutters  to  the  wind  his  wayward  tale, 
Or  chants  abrupt,  a  discontented  strain.' 

This,  be  it  remembered,  is  the  gait  of  a  musing,  melancholy 
bard.  Now,  the  walk  of  a  thoughtful  man  is  solemn  and  slow* 
He  gives  his  pensive  fancies  to  the  air  beneath  a  beech  at  noon 
tide,  or  he  saunters  in  listless  idleness  along.  Who  but  our  au 
thor  would  represent  him,  *  locomoting'  on  a  long,  dog-trot  over 
the  bogs  of  his  neighborhood,  or  going  ahead  like  the  famous 
steam-boat  of  Davy  Crockett's,  that  jumped  all  the  sawyers  in 
the  Mississippi? 

An  amatory  effusion,  addressed  by  this  writer  to  a  virgin  of 
his  acquaintance,  commences  thus  : 

4  Maid  of  the  lovely-rolling  eye  !' 

In  truth,  he  appears  always  to  have  preferred  Venus  to  Miner 
va,  and  a  defective  education  was  the  result,  which  is  every 
where  exhibited  in  his  writings.  He  tells  us  that  he  used  to 
throw  his  books  to  the  dogs, 

'  and  mingling  in  the  sprightly  train, 

In  many  a  gambol,  scoured  the  plain.' 

Indeed  he  is  candid  enough  to  say,  expressly  : 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.  285 

'  I  boldly  shunned  the  school, 

And  scorning  all  distracting  rule, 
The  dreaded  master's  voice  behind 
I  thought  /  heard  in  every  mind? 

A  person  conversant  with  the  writings  of  GRAY,  might  fancy 
a  kind  of  plagiarism  here,  from  the  following  lines  in  the  Ode  to 
Eton  College,  where,  speaking  of  school-boys,  he  sings : 

«  still  as  they  run,  they  look  behind — 

They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind?  etc. 

But  we  will  be  merciful.  The  similitude  is  merely  one  of  the 
thousand  and  nine  strange  coincidences  with  common  English 
authors,  in  which  all  the  verses  of  this  very  original  writer 
abound.  In  this  particular  instance  he  was  excusable  for  ima 
gining  that  he  heard  a  voice  in  the  wind,  and  for  saying  so  in 
his  rhymes,  since  his  stolen  relaxation  was  very  suspicious.  He 
went,  he  says,  to  meet  a  young  woman, 

— —  *  with  charms  divine  that  first  could  move, 
And  fire  my  youthful  soul  to  love, 
And  show  the  hawthorn  in  the  mead 
To  whose  well-known,  concealing  shade 
In  evenings  cool  we  oft  would  stray.' 

He  remarks,  also,  that  being  thus  cosily  situated,  under  the 
hawthorn  aforesaid,  they  concluded  '  to  bring  the  vale  to  witness 
their  tale,'  and  that  '  she  was  kind,  and  he  was  blest.1  Particu 
lars  are  omitted.  It  is  possible  that  this  is  the  same  maid  whom 
he  immortalizes  in  another  production,  and  to  whom  comfort  is 
administered,  just  as  the  twain  are  leaving  Ireland  for  Philadel 
phia,  in  the  following  affectionate  and  hopeful  lines  : 

'  We  need  not  grieve  now,  our  friends  to  leave  now, 

For  Erin's  fields  we  again  shall  see  ; 
But  first  a  lady,  in  Pennsylvania, 
My  dear,  remember  thou  art  to  be  !' 

Here,  capricious  in  luxury,  we  must  pause,  and  turn  to  an 
other  department  in  which  our  critic  has  excelled  ;  namely,  in  the 
Drama. 

His  first  tragedy  was  called  '  The  Usurper,'  and  although  it  was 
a  most  deplorable  failure,  yet  the  author  strenuously  contended 
that  it  was  no  fault  of  his.  Everything  that  benevolence  could 
suggest  was  done  to  make  it  live,  and  to  resuscitate  it  after  death  ; 
but  in  vain.  Prometheus  himself  could  not  have  revived  it,  with 
all  the  authentic  fire  of  Jove.  To  herald  its  advent,  every  pos 
sible  exertion  was  made  in  the  newspapers,  under  the  immediate 
direction  of  the  author.  How  many  were  the  free  admissions, 
how  numberless  the  antecedent  puffs  which  he  caused  to  be 


286  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

caused  to  be  manufactured,  or  else  produced  himself;  all  setting: 
forth,  in  sugared  phraseology,  that  '  our  gifted  fellow-townsman, 
Dr.  McH***y,'  would  appear  as  a  dramatist  on  such  a  night ! 
It  was  even  publicly  hinted,  by  a  friendly  journalist,  at  our 
author's  special  solicitation,  that  '  it  was  understood  that  the 
seats  were  nearly  all  taken,  and  that  all  who  desired  to  witness 
its  first  representation,  must  make  immediate  application  at  the 
box  office  !'  But  alas  !  the  tragedy  was  inflicted  but  twice  upon 
an  exceedingly  sparse  audience,  and  then  expired.  The  cause 
of  its  untimely  demise  was  explained  at  length  to  the  public  at 
the  time,  by  the  author,  and  proved  to  be,  that  the  actors  were 
jealous  of  the  writer's  reputation  !  '  Sir,'  said  he  to  an  unfortunate 
gentleman  whom  he  held  by  the  button  in  Chestnut-street,  '  the 
decline  of  this  production  was  principally  owing  to  one  of  the 
supernumeraries.  He  was  despatched  to  secure  a  distinguished 
prisoner,  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  play.  When  he  returned 
without  him,  he  should  have  replied  thus  to  the  question, 
*  Where's  your  prisoner  ?' 

'My  lord,  we  caught  him,  and  we  held  him  long; 

But  as  d d  fate  decreed,  he  'scaped  our  grasp, 

And  fled.' 

Now,  sir,  this  is  poetry  ;  it  stirs  the  blood,  and  makes  an  au 
dience  feel  very  uneasy.  And  how  do  you  think  that  elegant 
passage  was  spoken  ?  Why,  it  was  done  in  this  wise  : 

Quest.  — '  Well,  have  you  catch'd  the  prisoner? 

Ans.  —  'Yes,  Sir,  we  catch'd  him,  but  we  could  not 
Hold  him  —  and  he's  off.' 

*  That  very  passage,  my  friend,  together  with  the  pre-disposed 
stupidity  of  the  audience,  ruined  my  tragedy  ;  and  it  is  lost  to 
the  stage.' 

But  these  reverses  did  not  damp  the  vanity  of  our  author. 
Though  the  public  condemned  and  laughed,  yet  his  familiar 
friends  looked  upon  all  the  works  that  he  had  made,  and  pro 
nounced  them  good.  Thus,  the  Usurper,  though  dead  and  bur 
ied,  was  duly  glorified  in  the  American  Quarterly  Review.  A 
labored  analysis  of  its  incomprehensible  plot  was  given,  and  l  its 
sweetness,  tenderness,  and  simplicity  ,'  set  forth  by  extracts  ! 

Animated  by  these  partial  plaudits,  our  dramatist  turned  his 
attention  to  comedy.  Feeling  indignant  at  the  unbending  Mor- 
decais  of  the  critical  world,  he  determined  to  crucify  them  all, 
emblematically.  So  he  wrote  a  piece  called  *  Love  and  Poetry.' 
This  lived  two  nights.  One  passage  only  is  preserved  in  the 
memory  of  the  hearers.  The  hero,  a  poet,  was  made  to  commit 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.        287 

a  highway  robbery ;  and  his  poor  old  father,  lamenting  the  in 
fatuated  criminality  of  his  boy,  exclaims  in  a  burst  of  parental  an 
guish  : 

'Alas  !  my  brain  is  wild  —  my  heart  is  sad  ; 

And,  as  't  is  troublesome  to  tarry  here, 

Where  every  thing  reminds  me  of  my  son, 

I  think,  upon  reflection,  I  will  go 

And  live  in  the  Western  Country  /' 

On  the  second  representation,  at  the  theatre  in  Walnut-street, 
the  quondam  Circus,  there  were  about  a  dozen  persons  in  the 
boxes,  perhaps  twenty  In  the  pit,  and  one  enterprising  Cyprian  in 
the  third  tier.  The  piece  was  listened  to  with  great  solemnity. 
It  was  written  for  amusement,  but  the  author  had  the  fun  all  to' 
himself.  So  irresistibly  comic  was  it,  that  there  was  scarcely  a 
smile  during  the  whole  performance.  The  friends  of  the  writer, 
unwilling  to  be  '  in  at  the  death'  of  his  comedy,  had  staid  away. 
They  knew  it  would  be  dismal  to  look  upon  the  bantling  of  a 
fellow-townsman,  in  articulo  mortis,  and  they  spared  themselves 
the  trial.  The  curtain  descended  ;  and  sundry  peanut-eating  pit- 
lings,  (who  lay  along  on  several  benches,  each  occupying  two  or 
three,)  made  an  unanimous  call  for  the  author.  He  arose  from 
his  solitude  in  the  second  box,  second  tier,  where  he  had  en 
sconced  himself,  and  said  : 

4  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  :  I  thank  you  for  this  triumphant  mark  of  esteem 
and  honor.  It  is  not  on  account  of  pecuniary  considerations  that  I  thank 
you,  for  I  perceive  by  a  glance  at  the  house,  that  the  avails  will  not  be  ex 
tensive  ;  but  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  thankful  for  the  glory,1  (and  here 
he  smote  his  breast  with  sonorous  emphasis,)  *  the  undying  glory  which  I 
feel  at  this  moment.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  I  thank  you  ALL.' 

This  was  the  last  of  our  critic's  dramatic  productions.  He 
has  since  attended  to  the  linen  trade,  and  occupied  the  stool  of 
poetical  criticism  in  the  American  Quarterly  Review.  All  the 
long,  dull  articles  in  that  periodical,  from  first  to  last,  on  the  sub 
ject  of  American  poetry,  have  been  from  his  pen.  The  drift  of 
them  generally  is,  to  show  that  there  is  not  and  can  not  be  such 
a  thing  as  American  verse,  and  that  in  this  particular  the  only 
way  to  succeed,  is  to  abandon  the  idea  of  any  independent  litera 
ture  of  our  own,  and  trust  for  that  commodity  to  trans-atlantic 
producers. 

We  can  not  enumerate  the  various  critiques  in  which  this  same 
sweet  bard  has  destroyed  all  the  chief  minstrels  of  the  land  ;  but 
the  ideas  of  the  American  Quarterly  with  respect  to  the  merits  of 
BRYANT,  are  too  peculiar  to  be  lost.  It  is  true,  that  they  differ 
in  the  matter  from  the  recorded  opinions  of  every  eminent  Review 
in  Europe  ;  but  then  taste  is  taste,  and  there  is  no  accounting  for 


288  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

it.  The  productions  of  Bryant  are  esteemed  by  this  Philadel 
phia  quarterly  as  utterly  devoid  of  any  qualities  to  excite  the 
reader's  curiosity  or  interest  his  heart.  *  Page  after  page,'  it 
says,  '  may  be  perused,  if  the  reader  has  sufficient  patience,  with 
dull  placidity,  or  rather  perfect  unconcern,  so  that  the  book  shall 
be  laid  aside  without  a  single  passage  having  been  impressed 
upon  the  mind  as  worthy  of  recollection? 

Now,  when  opinions  like  these  are  advanced,  in  utter  opposi 
tion  to  the  whole  world  of  letters,  in  defiance  of  taste  and  sense, 
the  question  naturally  arises,  Who  judges  thus  foolishly?  This, 
as  far  as  the  American  Quarterly  Review  is  concerned,  we  have 
endeavored  to  show  in  the  foregoing  pages,  and  in  so  doing,  have 
set  down  naught  in  malice.  The  choice  morsels  of  biography 
that  we  have  presented,  are  inseparable  from  the  works  of  our 
author  ;  they  are,  moreover,  notorious.  The  moral  of  all  is,  that 
our  literature  has  been  long  enough  degraded  by  alien  intruders, 
who  have  neither  learning  nor  genius,  and  by  those  enemies  of  the 
most  dignified  interests  of  the  country,  who  have  aided  and  abet 
ted  their  shallow  pretensions.  Were  it  likely  that  a  discontinu 
ance  of  the  evil  is  at  hand,  we  might  be  content  to  let  such  liter 
ary  empirics  make  themselves  as  ridiculous  as  they  please.  But 
when,  because  anonymous,  their  bad  taste  infects  even  a  limited 
number  of  readers,  their  influence  becomes  offensive.  The  di 
vine  Plato,  in  his  immortal  dialogue  of  Protagoras,  tells  us,  that 
in  the  arts  it  is  only  the  opinions  of  those  who  are  themselves 
gifted  and  skilful,  that  ought  to  be  respected.  And  what  kind 
of  skill,  by  our  present  unbiassed  showing,  has  been  evinced  by 
this  Critic  ?  He  is  a  walking  synonym  for  a  failure,  in  every 
thing.  We  are  told  on  goftd  authority,  though  the  work  has  not 
yet  reached  us,  thai  in  the  last  number  of  the  American  Quar 
terly,  our  Aristarchus  is  at  his  work  again.  He  confesses  the 
general  popularity  of  several  American  poets,  but  lays  the  blame 
on  the  press  and  the  public.  He  thinks  that  both  should  be 
slow  to  commend,  and  be  careful  not  to  be  gulled.  Such  advice 
comes  with  miserable  grace  from  the  author.  His  insatiate  hun 
ger  for  praise,  and  his  continual  supplications  for  it,  of  the  edi 
torial  fraternity  of  Philadelphia,  are  proverbial.  And,  as  to  de 
ceiving  the  public,  we  place  him  at  our  bar,  and  ask  him  to  es 
tablish  his  own  innocence.  Did  he  not  once  determine  to  take 
the  general  applause  by  storm,  and  on  the  publication  of  one  of 
his  unhappy  novels,  repeatedly  stop  the  press,  and  cause  second, 
third,  and  fourth  editions  to  .  be  inserted  in  the  title-page  of  the 
same  impression  ?  Was  not  the  third  edition  for  sale  at  the 
Jbook-stores  before  the  first  was  bound  ?  Was  not  the  same 


AMERICAN    POETS,    AND    THEIR    CRITICS.        289 

system  adopted  with  several  of  his  other  works,  the  plagiarized 
*  Pleasures  of  Friendship,'  especially  ?  Any  Philadelphia  book 
seller  can  answer  these  queries,  much  more  readily  than  our 
critic  would  like  to  admit  them.  It  is  only  by  such  modes  of 
grasping  at  ephemeral  praise,  through  trickery,  coupled  with  ad 
vance  eulogies  and  surmises  in  newspapers : 

'  e  1'  augurio,  a  la  bugia, 

E  chiromanti,  ed  ogni  fallace  arte, 
Sorte,  indovini,  e  falsa  profezia,' 

that  this  critic  has  ever  been  honored,  even  with  ridicule.  All 
his  articles  have  proceeded  from  the  ignoblest  private  motives, 
either  of  hope  or  of  retaliation.  Thus,  the  argument  spoken  of  as 
contained  in  his  last  Review ;  namely,  that  we  have  yet  no  great, 
long  poem ;  no  big  book  of  American  metre,  and  that  there  is 
now  a  want  of  it ;  is  only  to  herald  a  manuscript  volume  of  his, 
in  some  nineteen  *  books,'  which  he  has  just  been  obliged  to  send 
to  London,  because  the  publishers  on  this  side  of  the  water  can 
not  see  its  merits.  It  has  been  shown  about  very  generally,  and 
we  learn,  is  similar  to  Emmons'  Fredoniad  ;  only  of  greater 
length.  It  is  y'clept  '  The  Antediluvians ;'  and  we  venture  to 
say,  if  any  hapless  London  bookseller  is  seduced  into  its  publi 
cation,  that  the  first  copy  which  reaches  America  will  be  lauded 
in  a  certain  quarter,  under  the  author's  immediate  supervision, 
as  a  work  '  unparalled,  unpaired,'  equal  to  Klopstock  or  Milton 
in  sublimity,  superior  to  Pope  in  harmony,  and  a  touch  beyond 
anything  ever  produced  in  the  United  States,  for  '  sweetness, 
tenderness,  and  simplicity  !'  We  wait  patiently  for  its  coming. 

NOTE. — THE  effect  of  this  article  was  a  decided  one.  It  put  an  end,  from  that 
time  forth)  to  the  literary  career  of  the  writer  whose  productions  it  exposed.  The 
work  here  referred  to  was  subsequently  published  in  London  by  the  author,  but  it 
dropped  still-born  from  the  press.  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH,  indeed,  revived  a  copy 
of  it  for  a  sort  of  galvanic  experiment  in  "criticism,  which  established  an  elec 
trical  '  communication'  with  the  risible  nerves  of  his  fifty  thousand  readers.  The 
critique  commenced,  if  we  rightly  remember,  with  these  flattering  words:  cTo 
compare  these  two  volumes  with  a  couple  of  bottles  of  small  beer,  would  be  greatly 
to  belie  that  fluid  !'  EDITOR. 

19 


290  PROSE     MISCELLANIES 


AN   OLD   MAN'S    RECORDS. 

WHEN  the  sober  and  mellow  days  of  Autumn  are  passing  by 
me  with  a  melancholy  smile,  I  love  to  go  back  upon  the  pinions 
of  memory,  to  the  scenes  and  enjoyments  of  other  years.  I 
joy  to  retrace  my  footsteps  along  the  journey  of  life  ;  to  call  up 
in  long  review  the  sunny  scenes  that  flitted  from  my  vision,  like 
the  gay  but  withered  leaves  of  the  departed  Summer,  which  I 
now  behold  from  my  window,  floating  with  a  low  and  mournful 
whisper  on  the  breeze.  I  love  to  call  old  friends  and  old  events 
to  mind  ;  to  linger  in  thought  by  the  low  mansions  of  dust,  in 
which  are  dwelling  in  silent  repose  the  forms  I  have  loved,  wait 
ing  to  awake  at  the  resurrection,  in  the  light  of  immortality  and 
the  likeness  of  GOD.  I  gaze  again,  as  from  some  lofty  eminence, 
upon  those  glorious  realms  of  my  early  imagination,  once  peo 
pled  with  forms  and  scenes  of  surpassing  beauty,  and  redolent 
of  the  sweet  odors  of  delight.  Such  are  my  thoughts  at  this 
calm  and  solemn  season.  The  chilling  influences  which  are 
usually  allotted  by  men  to  the  octogenarian,  are  not  with  me. 
This  Sabbath  of  the  Year  descends  upon  me  like  some  holy  and 
heavenly  spirit,  with  gentle  voices,  and  on  dove-like  wings  ;  un 
til,  as  I  repaint  the  faded  pictures  of  the  past,  with  the  magic 
dyes  of  fancy  and  of  memory,  I  gaze  again  upon  them  with  a 
feeling  of  honest  and  refreshing  rapture,  or  a  not  unpleasing  sad 
ness.  Age,  unlike  the  Idleness  of  the  great  moralist,  has  not 
yet  wreathed  for  me  its  garland  of  poppies,  or  poured  into  my 
cup  the  waters  of  oblivion.  I  renew,  in  thought  and  feeling,  the 
joys  and  the  sorrows  of  by-gone  times.  A  holy  tenderness 
creeps  warmly  into  my  heart ;  and  as  I  approach  the  great  gate 
which  opens  from  time  into  eternity,  I  turn  to  survey  the  vistas 
through  which  my  wayfaring  has  lain,  as  the  traveller  pauses  at 
sun-set  to  look  back  in  the  waning  light  upon  the  dim  and  distant 
landscape  that  he  has  traversed. 

This  comparison  of  life  to  a  journey,  reminds  me  how  pleasant 
it  is  to  overlook  the  records  of  modern  pilgrims,  in  Pays  3?  Outre 
Me?\  I  compare  what  they  see,  with  what  I  have  seen  on  the 
same  extended  theatre,  in  times  long  past ;  ere  yet  the  school 
master  was  abroad,  as  now  ;  when  Johnson  thundered  his  pomp 
ous  anathemas  against  American  independence  ;  when  Pitt  and 
Burke  wielded  their  tremendous  eloquence  in  the  popular  assem 
bly,  and  *  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime.'  Those 
were  days  of  interest ;  of  deep,  stern,  and  awful  import ;  and 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    RECORDS.  291 

I  witnessed  them  as  they  passed,  on  the  very  arena  from  which 
they  borrowed  their  glory  and  their  gloom.  I  have  seen  the  fatal 
axe  descend  upon  the  heads  of  a  Marie  Antoinette  and  a  Louis 
Capet;  I  have  witnessed  the  tumults  of  a  revolution,  the  thou 
sand  excitements  of  political  life  in  a  departed  age ;  and  as  at  '  a 
theatre  or  scene,'  have  beheld  those  great  actors  play  their  parts 
in  the  vast  drama  of  existence,  who  are  now  quietly  reposing, 
some  in  tombs  of  honor,  and  others  in  vaults  of  infamy.  My 
youth  was  spent  abroad,  at  a  period  when  every  object  was  to  me 
new  and  impressive  ;  when  the  contrasts  between  the  new  world 
and  the  old  were  large  and  various  ;  and  when  my  country,  then 
glimmering  like  a  faint  star  in  the  West,  had  scarcely  began  to 
clothe  herself  in  that  meridian  brightness  wherewith  she  is  now 
invested. 

I  passed  the  best  portions  of  my  early  manhood  in  France 
and  England.  This  foreign  sojourn  was  in  days  lang,  lang  syne  ; 
and  no  one  can  tell  the  enthusiasm  which  filled  to  overflowing 
my  truly  American  bosom,  as  I  heard,  by  slow  and  uncertain  ar 
rivals,  how  the  current  of  free  principles  was  rolling  onward  in 
my  native  land.  I  used  daily  to  read,  with  stormy  indignation, 
those  journals  which  teemed  with  obloquy  upon  the  *  Rebels'  of 
the  New  World,  even  after  the  war-cloud  had  ceased  to  '  muffle 
up  the  sun'  of  liberty.  In  all  things  I  was,  from  principle,  pro 
fession,  education,  and  habit,  an  uncompromising  republican.  In 
the  best  sense  of  the  word,  thank  Heaven !  I  am  so  still. 

As  I  cast  my  eye  backward  over  that  period  in  my  humble 
history,  and  the  scenes  it  embraced,  I  bethink  me  of  the  great 
truth  in  the  words  of  the  wise  man  of  Jerusalem :  *  The  thing 
that  hath  been,  is  that  which  shall  be  ;  and  that  which  is  done, 
is  that  which  shall  be  done ;  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.* 
The  principal  causes  of  common  events  in  our  country  at  pres 
ent,  are  much  like  those  of  Europe  then ;  there  were  mobs  and 
murders,  and  desperate  adventures  among  the  debased  and  the 
passion-led  ;  but  among  the  majority  of  the  people  there  was 
paramount  a  sincere  respect  or  reverence  for  the  laws. 

But  the  affections  and  frailties*  mortals  alike  impress  all 
ages.  '  Nature  is  —  nature,'  says  some  profound  *  saw'-yer,  and 
its  attributes,  at  one  period  or  another,  are  always  the  same.  1 
have  seen  offenders  against  the  laws  lay  down  their  lives  at  home 
and  abroad ;  I  have  heard  the  shouts  of  infuriated  multitudes  on 
both  sides  of  the  Atlantic ;  and  I  have  drawn  from  all  a  mean 
ing  and  a  moral,  of  which  the  principal  is  this :  that  while  in  our 
own  country  there  exist  no  external  excuses  for  crime,  it  is  often 
in  Europe  the  dire  result  of  positive,  unescapeable  compulsion* 


292  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

When  I  say  this,  I  speak  of  course  of  those  crimes  which  are 
begotten  of  Indigence  and  Ignorance ;  crimes  which  may  as  it 
were  be  naturally  looked  for  in  a  population  like  that  of  the 
great  capital  of  England,  where  it  is  asserted  that  sixty  thousand 
unfortunate  persons  arise  every  morning,  from  hap-hazard  lodg 
ings  in  by-places,  without  a  morsel  of  bread  for  their  lips,  or  a 
place  to  lay  their  hapless  forms  when  the  evening  draws  nigh. 

The  first  execution  that  I  ever  witnessed,  was  in  London.  I 
was  also,  by  accident,  a  spectator  of  the  dreadful  deed  which 
brought  the  wretched  criminal  to  the  gallows.  I  proceed  to  give 
a  description  of  both  the  culprit  and  his  act ;  of  the  causes  which 
made  him  the  former,  and  brought  about  the  latter.  All  the 
scenes  of  this  extraordinary  and  romantic  catastrophe  arise  to  my 
mind  as  vividly  as  if  they  had  happened  but  yesterday. 

On  the  evening  of  the  seventh  of  April,  1779,  I  left  my  lodg 
ings  in  the  Strand,  at  an  early  hour,  for  Covent  Garden  Theatre. 
The  house  was  filling  as  I  sought  my  box.  The  play  was  Love 
in  a  Village,  and  the  cast  for  the  night  embraced  some  of  the 
then  most  popular  performers  of  the  day.  There  was  a  contin 
ual  influx  of  beauty  and  fashion,  until  the  dress  circles  assumed 
an  appearance  of  absolute  splendor.  Plumes  waved ;  jewelled 
hands  lifted  the  golden-bound  glass  to  the  voluptuous  eye ;  and 
all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  a  brilliant  auditory  garnished 
the  scene.  One  '  taken'  box  still  remained  without  its  occu 
pants  ;  but  at  the  close  of  the  first  act,  they  entered.  A  middle- 
aged,  but  fine-featured  and  cheerful-looking  gentleman,  with  an 
Irish  physiognomy,  handed  into  her  place  a  lady  of  such  sur 
passing  loveliness,  that,  the  first  glance  being  taken,  I  could 
scarcely  withdraw  from  her  the  patronage  of  my  eye.  She  was 
dressed  in  the  magnificent  fashion  of  the  time  ;  her  hair  parting 
off  from  her  temples  and  forehead  like  a  wave,  and  falling  in  two 
large  masses  on  either  side  of  her  polished  neck.  Her  brow 
was  high  and  clear ;  her  eyes  of  heaven's  own  azure ;  her  nose 
had  the  fair  lines  and  nostril  curve  of  Greece ;  her  cheeks  and 
chin  softly  dimpled,  and  her  ruby  lips  wearing  '  a  smile,  the 
sweetest  that  ever  was  seeirar  The  dazzling  creature  took  her 
place,  and  adjusted  her  scarf  with  inimitable  gracefulness.  Her 
dress,  I  well  remember,  was  in  the  height  of  taste  ;  the  white 
lace  ruffles  of  her  short  sleeves  terminating  at  the  elbows,  and 
showing  the  perfect  symmetry  of  her  hand  and  arm,  as  she  plied 
her  pretty  fan,  or  peered  through  her  glass  at  the  Pride  of  the 
Village.  I  was  quite  overcome  with  admiration. 
*  Pray  who  can  that  be?'  said  I  to  a  friend. 
'  What  a  question  !'  was  the  reply.  *  How  ignorant  you  are  ! 


293 

'  Not  to  know  her,  argues  yourself  unknown.'  That  is  the  splen 
did  Miss  REAY,  the  fair  friend  of  Lord  Sandwich,  who  is  her 
protector.  He  has  given  her  the  protection  that  vultures  give  to 
lambs.  She  has  borne  him  two  or  three  lovely,  cherub-like  chil 
dren.  He  is  twice  her  senior  in  years,  has  robbed  her  of  her 
best  treasure,  and  it  is  strongly  whispered  that  she  loves  him  not. 
When  in  public,  as  at  present,  she  usually  appears  without  him.' 

I  did  not  prolong  my  inquiries,  for  the  lady  herself  attracted 
my  sole  attention,  to  the  utter  disregard  of  the  play.  As  I  was 
gazing  in  that  direction,  I  saw  a  persdto  standing  at  the  door  of  a 
box  near  by,  whom  at  the  first  glance  I  took  for  a  maniac.  His 
eyes  glared  with  unsettled  wildness  ;  his  face  was  pale  as  death, 
and  the  damp  hair  hung  in  heavy  threads  over  his  forehead.  He 
was  looking  at  Miss  Reay  with  an  expression  in  which  love  and 
hate  seemed  struggling  for  empire.  He  was  well-sized,  hand 
some,  and  of  goodly  presence.  He  was  dressed  in  black.  I 
never  beheld  a  countenance  in  which  so  much  mental  excitement 
was  depicted.  His  livid  lips  moved  as  if  in  a  kind  of  prayer : 
he  would  sometimes  press  his  hand  against  his  forehead  or  his 
heart ;  and  finally,  after  a  long  and  lingering  look  at  the  lady  I 
have  mentioned,  raised  his  handkerchief  hurriedly  to  his  eyes, 
and  disappeared. 

I  never  remember  to  have  passed  an  evening  in  such  perfect 
abstraction  as  this.  The  intoxication  of  beauty  overpowered 
me  ;  and  so  rapt  had  been  my  attention,  that  I  scarcely  knew 
when  the  play  was  over.  I  hurried  out,  as  soon  as  the  curtain 
fell,  and  stepping  to  the  Piazzas,  waited  to  see  the  fair  creature 
enter  her  carriage.  She  passed  by  me,  with  her  attendant,  his 
epaulettes  glittering  in  the  lamp-light.  A  kind  of  enchantment 
possessed  me,  and  a  foreboding  that  some  doleful  disaster  was 
about  to  happen.  I  was  moving  onward,  and  stood  within  a  few 
feet  of  the  lady,  when  I  heard  the  loud  and  stunning  report  of  a 
heavily-charged  pistol.  Another  followed,  and  shrieks  and 
groans  resounded  along  the  arches.  I  rushed  toward  the  spot 
whence  the  deadly  sounds  proceeded,  and  found  the  brilliant 
being  whom  I  have  described,  weltering  in  her  blood.  The  ball 
had  entered  her  fair  forehead,  and  her  vestments  were  deluged 
with  gore.  The  sight  was  horrid  beyond  description.  She  was 
perfectly  dead.  I  penetrated  the  crowd  that  had  surrounded  the 
murderer.  It  was  the  same  person  whom  I  had  noticed  in  the 
theatre,  and  whose  looks  were  so  desperate.  His  face  was  white 
as  snow  ;  his  eyes  dilated,  and  his  lips  compressed  ;  but  his  de 
meanor  evinced  a  kind  of  peaceful  tranquillity,  or  dead  stupor ; 
the  awful  calm  that  follows  a  tempest  of  passion.  The  blood, 


294  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

and  even  portions  of  the  brain  of  his  victim  were  on  his  sleeve. 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  terror  of  that  scene  !  He  had  attempted 
immediately  after  killing  Miss  Reay  to  destroy  his  own  life  ;  but 
his  murderous  weapon  failed  in  its  effect,  and  he  stood  mute 
before  the  multitude,  a  personification  of  immoveable  Horror. 

I  returned  to  my  lodgings,  but  sleep  fled  from  my  eye-lids. 
The  excitement  of  fixed  attention  during  the  evening,  and  the 
awful  catastrophe  I  had  witnessed,  left  me  in  a  state  of  dread, 
and  nervous  feeling.  If  I  slumbered,  my  slumbers  were  not 
sleep,  but  a  continuance  of  melancholy  scenes  and  impressions. 
Sometimes  I  fancied  myself  the  murderer,  flying  from  the  sword 
of  justice  to  my  own  place  of  abode,  and  seeking  relief  upon 
my  pillow.  It  seemed  in  vain  ;  for  methought, 

That  Guilt  was  the  grim  chamberlain 

Who  lighted  me  to  bed, 
And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 

With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 

The  next  day,  all  the  events  which  led  to  the  deplorable 
deed  I  had  witnessed,  were  brought  to  light,  The  murderer 
was  a  young  clergyman  named  James  Hackman.  He  was  for 
merly  an  officer  in  one  of  the  British  regiments  ;  and  being  in 
vited  on  one  occasion  to  dine  with  Lord  Sandwich  at  Hichin- 
brook  House,  he  met  Miss  Reay,  and  soon  became  so  despe 
rately  enamoured  of  her  as  to  weaken  his  health.  He  finally, 
more  probably  for  the  purpose  of  being  near  the  object  of  his 
love,  than  for  any  other  cause,  left  the  army,  took  holy  orders, 
and  obtained  the  living  of  Wiverton  in  Norfolk. 

Perhaps  a  more  affecting  and  melancholy  termination  of  un 
lawful  love  never  occurred  than  this.  Miss  lleay  had  little  or  no 
affection  for  the  nobleman  who  had  so  foully  wronged  her ;  and 
the  first  object  of  her  passion  was  undoubtedly  the  young  military 
clergyman.  In  the  course  of  time  he  completely  won  her  heart, 
and  alienated  her  regard,  if  any  she  had,  entirely  from  her  first 
lord.  A  series  of  letters  passed  between  them  for  several  years, 
printed  copies  of  which  are  now  before  me,  and  some  of  which, 
or  extracts  from  them,  it  may  not  be  improper  to  give.  He  ul 
timately  removed  to  Ireland  ;  and  on  his  return  found  the  heart 
of  his  versatile  mistress  changed  forever,  and  in  favor  of  a  third 
admirer.  While,  however,  in  the  mutual  '  tempest,  torrent,  and 
I  may  say,  whirlwind  of  their  passion,'  while  he  was  in  the  con 
stant  course  of  dishonoring  the  man  whose  hospitality  he  had  so 
often  enjoyed,  (if  dishonor  it  may  be  called  under  the  circum 
stances,)  the  epistles  which  the  parties  addressed  to  each  other 
breathe  the  very  soul  of  feeling.  Never,  perhaps,  was  there  a 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    RECORDS.  295 

more  awful  exemplification,  than  in  the  case  of  these  short-lived 
lovers,  of  the  truth  of  Shakspeare's  lines : 

*  These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends, 
And  in  their  sweetness  die.' 

'Huntingdon,  8th  Dec.,  1775. 

*  To  Miss .    Then  I  release  my  dear  soul  from  her  promise  about  to 
day.     If  you  do  not  see  that  all  which  he  can  claim  by  gratitude,  I  doubly 
claim  by  love,  I  have  done,  forever.     I  would  purchase  my  happiness  at  any 
price  but  at  the  expense  of  yours.     Look  over  my  letters,  think  over  my 
conduct,  consult  your  own  heart,  read  these  two  long  letters  of  your  own 
writing,  which  I  return  you.     Then  tell  me  whether  we  love  or  not.     And 
if  we  love  (as  witness  both  our  hearts),  shall  gratitude,  cold  gratitude,  bear 
away  the  prize  that's  due  to  love  like  ours  ?     Shall  my  right  be  acknowl 
edged,  and  he  possess  the  casket  ?     Shall  I  have  your  soul,  and  he  your 
hand,  your  lips,  your  eyes  ? 

»  Gracious  God  of  Love !  I  can  neither  write  nor  think.  Send  one  line, 
half  a  line,  to 

4  Your  own,  own  H.' 

This  impassioned  letter,  with  others  previously  sent,  induced 
the  following  reply : 

<H.  10th  Dec.,  '75. 

'To  MR.  H .  Your  two  letters  of  the  day  before  yesterday,  and 

what  you  said  to  me  yesterday,  have  drove  me  mad.  You  know  how  such 
tenderness  distracts  me.  As  to  marrying  me,  that  you  should  not  do  upon 
any  account.  Shall  the  man  I  value,  be  pointed  at  and  hooted  for  selling 
himself  to  a  lord  for  a  commission  ?  *  *  *  My  soul  is  above  my  situ 
ation.  Beside,  I  will  not  take  advantage  of  what  may  be  only,  perhaps, 
(excuse  me),  a  youthful  passion.  After  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  of 
a  week  or  ten  days,  your  opinion  of  me  might  very  much  change.  And 
yet  you  may  love  me  as  sincerely  as  I 

'  But  I  will  transcribe  you  a  verse  which  I  don't  believe  you  ever  heard 
me  sing,  though  it's  my  favorite.  It  is  said  to  be  a  part  of  an  old  Scottish 
ballad  —  nor  is  it  generally  believed  that  Lady  L.  wrote  it.  It  is  so  descrip 
tive  of  our  situation,  I  wept  over  it  like  a  child,  yesterday  : 

'  I  gang  like  a  ghost,  and  I  do  not  care  to  spin, 
I  fain  would  think  on  Jamie,  but  that  would  be  a  sin; 
I  must  e'en  do  my  best  a  good  wife  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  has  been  kind  to  me.' 

*  For  God's  sake  let  me  see  my  Jamie  to-morrow.     Your  name  also  is 
Jamie.' 

It  would  of  course  be  useless  for  me  to  follow  up  these  epis 
tolary  details  of  passion  and  crime.  At  my  present  age,  when 
*  the  hey-day  of  the  blood  is  cool  and  humble,  and  waits  upon 
the  judgment,'  I  look  upon  them  as  the  confessions  of  two  minds 
alienated  from  reason  by  temporary  madness.  Three  days  after 
the  date  of  the  foregoing,  the  reverend  lover  wrote  thus  : 

'Huntingdon,  13th  Dec.,  '75. 
'To  Miss .     My  Life  and  Soul!     But  I  will  never  more  use  any 


296  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

more  preface  of  this  sort,  and  I  beg  you  will  not.  A  correspondence  begins 
with  dear,  then  my  dear,  dearest,  my  dearest,  and  so  on,  till,  at  last,  panting 
language  toils  after  us  in  vain. 

«  No  language  can  explain  my  feelings.  Oh,  yesterday,  yesterday !  Lan 
guage  thou  liest!  Oh,  thou  beyond  my  warmest  dreams  bewitching  !  Are 
you  not  now  convinced  that  Heaven  made  us  for  each  other  ?  *  *  * 
Have  I  written  sense  ?  I  know  not  what  I  write. 

'  Misfortune,  I  defy  thee  now!  M.  loves  me,  and  my  soul  has  its  content 
most  absolute.  No  other  joy  like  this  succeeds  in  unknown  fate.' 

To  say  that  the  whole  correspondence  is  marked  on  both  sides 
with  good  taste,  often  with  learning,  and  always  with  enthusiastic 
but  guilty  tenderness,  is  but  justice  to  the  memory  of  the  parties. 
In  one  of  his  letters,  Hackman  quotes  the  following  among  other 
stanzas,  entitled,  '  The  moans  of  the  forest  after  the  battle  of 
Flodden  Field :' 

*  I  have  heard  a  lilting  at  the  ewes'  milking, 
A'  the  lasses  lilting  before  break  of  day ; 
But  now  there's  a  moaning  in  ilka  green  loning, 
Since  the  flowers  of  the  forest  are  weeded  away. 

'At  bughts  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe  lads  are  scorning, 

Our  lasses  are  lonely,  and  dowie,  and  wae  ; 
Nae  daffing,  nae  gabbin,  but  sighing  and  sobbing, 
Ilka  lass  lifts  her  leglin,  and  hies  her  away.' 

During  the  lover's  sojourn  in  Ireland,  he  wrote  to  his  mistress, 
and  in  doing  so,  spoke  unwittingly  of  pleasant  female  acquaint 
ances  that  he  had  formed  in  that  kingdom.  This,  I  have  reason 
to  believe,  was  the  first  impulse  to  her  estrangement.  Her  pre 
vious  letters  to  him  had  been  overflowing  with  affectionate  senti 
ments.  In  one  of  them,  speaking  of  her  devotion,  she  says,  *  I 
could  die,  cheerfully,  by  your  hand,  I  know  I  could.'  The  let 
ter  to  which  I  have  just  alluded,  however,  provoked  the  following 
reply:  ' 

1 England,  25th  June,  1776. 

1  To  MR. .  Let  me  give  you  joy  of  having  found  such  kind  and 

agreeable  friends  in  a  strange  land.  The  account  you  gave  me  of  the  lady 
quite  charmed  me.  Neither  am  J  without  my  friends.  A  lady  from  whom 
I  have  received  particular  favors,  is  uncommonly  kind  to  me.  For  the 
credit  of  your  side  of  the  water,  she  is  an  Irish  woman.  Her  agreeable 
husband,  by  his  beauty  and  accomplishments,  does  credit  to  this  country. 
He  is  remarkable  also  for  his  feelings. 

*  Adieu !  This  will  affect  you,  I  dare  say,  in  the  same  manner  that  your 
account  affected  me.' 

This  letter,  with  others  that  followed  it,  soon  brought  Mr. 
Hackman  to  London.  He  lodged,  on  his  return,  in  Cannon's 
Court,  and  addressed  an  immediate  letter  to  his  mistress.  The 
answer  returned,  purported  to  come  from  a  female  servant,  wri 
ting  by  the  sick  bed  of  her  lady,  and  at  her  dictation. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  RECORDS.  297 

epistle  was  humbly  written,  and  filled  with  prevarications  and 
cold  compliments.  By  degrees,  the  melancholy  truth  of  the 
lady's  estrangement  was  established.  Proof  of  the  most  positive 
description  was  furnished.  It  drove  the  lover  to  despair,  and  he 
resolved  upon  self-destruction.  Information  having  been  com 
municated  to  him  at  his  parsonage  in  Norfolk,  (whither  before 
the  full  proof  of  his  suspicions  he  had  retired,)  calculated  to 
awaken  every  dark  surmise,  he  hastened  to  London,  where 
everything  was  confirmed.  In  his  first  tumultuous  resolve  for 
self  murder,  he  expressed  his  fears  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  as 
follows  :  *  My  passions  are  blood-hounds,  and  will  inevitably  tear 
me  to  pieces.  The  hand  of  nature  has  heaped  up  every  species 
of  combustible  in  my  bosom.  The  torch  of  love  has  set  the 
heap  on  fire,  and  I  must  perish  in  the  flames.  And  who  is  he 
will  answer  for  passions  such  as  mine  ?  At  present,  I  am  inno 
cent.'  His  last  letter  before  committing  the  deed  for  which  he 
suffered  an  ignominious  death,  was  addressed  to  a  friend,  and 
couched  in  the  following  terms  : 

'7 'th  April,  1779. 

•To  Mr.  B.     My  Dear  F .     When  this  reaches  you  I  shall  be  na 

more,  but  do  not  let  my  unhappy  fate  distress  you  too  much.  I  strove 
against  it  as  long  as  possible,  but  now  it  overpowers  me.  You  know  where 
my  affections  were  placed  ;  my  having  by  some  means  or  other  lost  hers, 
(an  idea  which  I  could  not  support,)  has  driven  me  to  madness.  God  bless- 
you,  my  dear  F .  Would  I  had  a  sum  of  money  to  leave  you  to  con 
vince  you  of  my  great  regarfl  !  May  Heaven  protect  my  beloved  woman, 
and  forgive  the  act  which  alone  could  relieve  me  from  a  world  of  misery  I 
have  long  endured  !  Oh!  should  it  be  in  your  power  to  do  her  any  act  of 
friendship,  remember  your  faithful  friend,  J.  H.' 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  the  preceding  letter  was 
written,  Mr.  Hackman  took  a  walk  to  the  Admiralty,  from  his 
lodgings  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  probably  to  take  a  last  view  of 
worldly  objects,  ere  he  plunged  into  the  great  gulf  of  Eternity. 
Near  the  Admiralty,  he  saw  Miss  Reay  pass  in  a  coach,  with 
Signora  Galli,  an  attendant.  He  rushed  into  the  theatre,  in  the 
desperate  condition  I  have  before  described ;  and  unable  to  con 
trol  his  thick-coming  and  bitter  thoughts,  returned  to  his  lodgings, 
where  he  procured  and  loaded  the  pistols,  with  one  of  which  he 
committed  his  dreadful  crime.  In  his  attempt  to  kill  himself  af 
ter  Miss  Reay,  he  was  severely  wounded.  Mr.  M'Namara,  a 
gentleman  who  was  assisting  the  lady  into  the  coach,  was  so 
covered  with  blood,  and  filled  with  horror,  that  he  was  seized 
with  violent  sickness.  The  mangled  remains  of  the  '  Beauty 
once  admired,'  were  conveyed  to  the  Shakspeare  tavern,  near 
the  theatre,  to  await  the  coroner's  inquest. 


298  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

The  unhappy  clergyman  was  conveyed  to  Newgate,  whence 
he  addressed  the  ensuing  note  to  a  friend  : 

« Sth  April,  1779. 

'To  CHARLES ,  ESQ.     I  am  alive,  and  she  is  dead.     1  shot  her  and 

not  myself.  Some  of  her  blood  is  still  upon  my  clothes.  I  dont  ask  you 
to  speak  to  me.  1  don't  ask  you  to  look  at  me.  Only  come  hither,  and 
bring  me  a  little  poison;  such  as  is  strong  enough.  Upon  my  knees  I  beg, 
if  your  friendship  for  me  ever  was  sincere,  do,  DO  bring  me  some  poison  /' 

This  was  not  furnished  him,  and  his  trial  soon  came  on.  I 
was  present.  The  prisoner  sat  with  his  white  handkerchief  at  his 
cheek,  his  head  resting  languidly  on  his  hand.  His  face  wore 
the  gloomy  pallor  of  the  grave.  The  plea  of  insanity,  put  in  by 
his  counsel,  did  not  avail.  When  he  rose  to  offer  his  defence, 
many  an  eye  glistened  with  the  tears  of  pity.  His  words,  hollow 
and  sepulchral  in  their  sound,  seemed  to  come  forth  without 
breath  from  his  livid  lips ;  while  a  large  dark  spot  on  his 
forehead  seemed  like  a  supernatural  seal  of  ruin.  His  defence 
was  brief,  clear,  and  pointed.  In  the  course  of  it  he  said  :  '  I 
stand  here  this  day  the  most  wretched  of  human  beings ;  but  I 
protest,  with  that  regard  to  truth  which  becomes  my  situation, 
that  the  will  to  destroy  her  who  was  ever  dearer  to  me  than  life, 
was  never  mine,  until  a  momentary  phrensy  overcame  me,  and  led 
me  to  the  deed  I  now  deplore.  Before  this  dreadful  act,  I 
trust  nothing  will  be  found  in  the  tenor  of  my  life,  which  the 
common  charity  of  mankind  will  not  excuse.  I  have  no  wish 
to  avoid  my  punishment.'  This  state  of  mind  prevailed  to  the 
last.  He  hungered  and  thirsted  for  death.  Lord  Sandwich  ad 
dressed  him  anonymously,  the  note  subjoined,  to  which  I  annex 
the  reply  : 

'  17th  April,  '79. 

'  To  Mr.  HACKMAN,  in  Newgate:  If  the  murderer  of  Miss wishes 

to  live,  the  man  he  has  most  injured  will  use  all  his  interest  to  procure  his 
life.' 

'  The  Condemned  CM  in  Newgate,          t 
Saturday  Night,  17th  April,  1779.    £ 

'  THE  murderer  of  her  whom  he  preferred,  far  preferred,  to  life,  suspects 
the  hand  from  which  he  has  just  received  such  an  offer  as  he  neither  desires 
nor  deserves.  His  wishes  are  for  death,  not  for  life.  One  wish  he  has  : 
Could  he  be  pardoned  in  this  world  by  the  man  he  has  most  injured  !  Oh 
my  lord,  when  I  meet  her  in  another  world,  enable  me  to  tell  her,  (if  de 
parted  spirits  are  not  ignorant  of  earthly  things,)  that  you  forgive  us  both, 
and  that  you  will  be  a  father  to  her  dear  infants !  J.  H.' 

The  rest  of  his  time  was  passed  in  a  state  of  mind  almost  too 
horrible  to  relate.  Among  his  writings,  were  such  records  as 
these  :  '  Since  I  wrote  my  last,  I  caught  myself  marching  up  and 
down  my  cell,  with  the  step  of  haughtiness  ;  hugging  myself  in 
my  two  arms ;  and  muttering  between  my  grating  teeth,  What  a 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    RECORDS.  299 

complete  wretch  I  am?  '  The  clock  has  just  struck  eleven. 
The  gloominess  of  my  favorite  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  which 
was  always  so  congenial  to  my  soul,  would  have  been  still 
heightened,  had  he  ever  been  wretched  enough  to  hear  St.  Paul's 
clock  thunder  through  the  still  ear  of  night,  in  the  condemned 
.cells  of  Newgate.  The  sound  is  truly  solemn — it  seems  the 
sound  of  death.  Oh  that  it  were  Death's  sound !  How  greed 
ily  would  my  impatient  ears  devour  it!  And  yet,  but  one  day 
.more.  Perturbed  spirit !  —  rest  till  then ! ' 

His  dreams  were  tumultuous  and  dismal.  In  one  vision,  he 
saw  himself  in  perdition,  and  having  a  distant  view  of  Heaven, 
beheld  his  adored  mistress  walking  with  angels,  and  looking  down 
with  a  look  of  peace  and  joy  upon  his  miseries.  She  did  not 
seem  to  know  of  them.  *  I  could  not  go  to  her,  nor  could  she 
come  to  me  :  nor  did  she  wish  it — there  was  the  curse  !  Oh, 
how  I  rejoiced,  how  I  wept  and  sobbed  with  joy,  when  I  awoke 
and  found  myself  in  the  condemned  cell  of  Newgate  /' 

HE  met  his  fate  at  the  scaffold  with  the  firmness  of  despair. 
Only  two  or  three  years  before,  the  criminal  had  attended  the 
execution  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Dodd.  I  employ  his  very  de 
scription  of  that  scene,  as  a  complete  simile  of  that  which  attend 
ed  his  own  death,  as  witnessed  by  me  ;  and  with  it,  close  the 
melancholy  tale.  *  At  last  arrived  the  fatal  moment.  The  dri 
ving  away  of  the  cart  was  accompanied  by  a  noise  which  best 
explained  the  feelings  of  the  spectators  for  the  sufferer.  Did 
you  never  observe,  at  the  sight  or  the  relation  of  anything  shock 
ing,  that  you  closed  your  teeth  hard,  and  drew  in  your  breath 
hard  through  them,  to  make  a  sort  of  hissing  sound  ?  This  was 
done  so  universally  at  the  fatal  moment,  that  I  am  persuaded  the 
noise  must  have  been  heard  at  a  considerable  distance.  For  my 
own  part,  I  detected  myself,  in  a  certain  manner,  accompanying 
his  body  with  my  own.' 

'  His  agony  was  soon  over,  and  his  cold  form  conveyed  to  its 
last  couch  of  silence  and  oblivion.' 

WE  have  been  much  alarmed  of  late,  by  the  mobs  and  dis 
turbances  which  have  prevailed  in  some  quarters  of  our  Repub 
lic — but  we  have  never  yet  experienced  anything  half  so  terrific 
as  the  mobs  of  Europe.  The  Bristol  Riots,  and  the  Evenne- 
mens  de  Lyons,  must  be  fresh  in  all  minds  ;  while  some  of  the 
more  remote  riots  in  the  British  capital  stand  out  like  pyramids 
from  the  general  level  of  ordinary  madness  and  crime.  It  was 
my  hap  to  see  the  Great  London  Riot  of  1780,  for  the  instiga 
tion  of  which  Lord  George  Gordon  was  tried  for  high  treason, 


300  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

and  left,  though  acquitted,  with  a  stain  upon  his  name.  He  was 
the  champion  of  a  numerous  class  of  the  lower  order  of  Protes 
tants,  who  held  large  meetings  in  various  parts  of  the  metropolis, 
and  sent  heavy  petitions  to  Parliament,  praying  for  enactments 
against  Catholicity.  One  of  these  documents,  signed  by  many 
thousands,  which  was  presented  by  Lord  Gordon,  was  so  large 
that  it  required  the  united  strength  of  all  the  officers  of  the 
House  to  lift  it  into  the  presence  of  that  noble  Legislature. 
Though  every  signature  was  genuine,  they  were  declared  to  be 
fictitious,  and  the  petition  was  treated  with  contempt.  Incensed 
at  this  imputation,  Lord  Gordon  vowed  that  he  would  convince 
Parliament  of  its  error,  by  bringing  up  the  petitioners  in  propria 
persona,  before  their  representatives  and  servants. 

He  kept  his  vow ;  and  at  ten  o'clock  on  the  next  Friday  morn 
ing,  several  thousands  of  his  petition-signers  assembled  in  St. 
George's  Fields,  where  the  noble  Lord  met  them,  as  a  Roman 
general  would  have  done  his  legions.  He  directed  them  to  pro 
ceed  to  the  Parliament  House,  over  the  Westminster,  Blackfri- 
ar's,  and  London  Bridges.  Before  this  great  multitude  had 
reached  their  place  of  destination,  it  had  doubled  its  numbers  and 
become  a  mob.  Lords,  bishops,  and  archbishops,  were  made 
objects  of  popular  fury ;  cries  of  *  No  Popery !'  rang  through 
the  dusky  streets ;  carriages  were  upset,  and  their  occupants 
obliged  to  escape  from  the  melee,  and  glide  in  disguise  from  roof 
to  roof,  to  which  they  ascended  from  dwellings  where  they  sought 
refuge. 

This  day  was  but  the  beginning  of  tumult.  Like  an  half- 
cured  ulcer  on  the  human  form,  the  riots,  when  suppressed  in 
one  quarter  of  the  town,  would  break  forth  in  others.  Saturday 
and  Sunday  witnessed  the  most  dreadful  excesses.  Indeed,  the 
mob  was  quite  uncontrollable,  and  yet  the  horrid  Saturnalia  had 
but  just  begun.  The  rioters  convened  in  immense  force  on  Mon 
day,  the  anniversary  of  the  king's  birth-day.  Efforts  had  been 
made,  but  ineffectually,  to  suppress  them ;  large  rewards  were 
offered  for  the  apprehension  of  the  ring-leaders  among  the  law 
less  bands,  who  had  burned  several  Catholic  chapels,  in  different 
sections  of  the  capital.  A  few  offenders  were  secured,  but  the 
flame  was  spreading,  and  the  great  body  of  miscreants  rioted  on. 

The  events  of  Tuesday  were  dreadful.  The  mob  made  a 
desperate  attack  upon  the  Newgate  prison,  mounting  in  swarms 
over  the  walls,  and  besieging  the  cells,  (where  a  few  riotous  prin 
cipals  were  confined,)  with  pick-axes  and  hammers.  The  chapel,, 
and  the  house  of  the  keeper,  were  soon  destroyed.  This  oc 
curred  between  six  and  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  loud 
alarms  and  rising  flames  drew  me  to  the  spot.  The  fire  had 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    KECORDS.  301 

then  communicated  to  the  wards  and  cells,  from  which  the  af 
frighted  prisoners  rushed  into  the  yard,  where  many  of  them 
were  supplied  with  liquor  by  the  monocracy,  and  went  yelling 
and  shouting  around  their  enlarged  boundary  of  exercise,  with 
the  fury  of  uncaged  tigers.  Many  who  were  under  sentence  of 
death  were  among  the  liberated  prisoners.  The  new  prison  at 
Clerkenwell  was  also  stormed  and  broken  open,  and  all  the  in 
mates  set  free.  Many  of  them,  grateful  for  their  sudden  and  un 
expected  discharge,  entered  heartily  into  the  cause  of  those  who 
had  played  for  them  the  part  of  liberators.  They  next  destroyed 
the  mansions  and  furniture  of  Sir  John  Fielding,  and  Lord 
Mansfield ;  pictures,  libraries,  wines,  and  splendid  furniture, 
might  have  been  seen,  strewed  in  all  directions,  and  clutched  by 
the  crowd. 

Thus  waged  the  horrid  war.  The  next  day  witnessed  only 
the  increase  of  a  lawless  power,  which  seemed  destined  to  know 
no  future  abatement.  The  establishment  of  a  private  citizen,  a 
distiller  in  Holborn,  a  papist,  Langdale  by  name,  was  attacked 
and  fired.  Then  ensued  a  scene,  such  as  pen  can  not  describe. 
Five  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  property  was  destroyed 
in  a  space  of  time  so  short,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  had 
perished  in  a  tornado  of  fire. 

The  spectacle  at  twilight  was  awful  and  sublime.  At  one  and 
the  same  moment  the  billowy  clouds  of  flame  were  seen  surging 
upward  from  the  King's  Bench  and  the  Fleet  Prisons  :  from  the 
ponderous  toll-gates  on  Blackfriar's  Bridge  ;  from  the  new 
Bridewell,  and  from  dwellings  in  different  sections  all  over  the 
metropolis.  With  a  few  friends  who  had  purchased  admission, 
I  surveyed  the  terrific  scene  from  the  cupola  of  St.  Paul's.  The 
crowds  that  ran  howling  through  the  streets  ;  the  occasional 
thunder  of  artillery  ;  the  spires  of  blazing  light  darting  up  on  all 
sides,  occasionally  revealing  the  red  waters  of  the  Thames,  and 
the  sails  like  sheeted  ghosts  wavering  along  its  bosom ;  the  tow 
ers  and  steeples  innumerable,  clothed  in  lurid  light;  the  maniac 
vociferations  of  numerous  straggling  parties  of  the  mob,  who 
had  come  intoxicated  from  Langdale's  distillery,  where  they 
drank  to  excess,  and  where  hundreds  of  hogsheads,  emptied  in 
the  gutters,  were  ignited  by  torches,  and  ran  from  street  to  street, 
a  tempestuous  torrent  of  fire; — these  were  sights,  that,  once  seen, 
could  not  fail  to  be  forever  remembered.  Words  are  powerless 
to  describe  them.  On  Thursday  they  ceased. 

We  have  had  some  violent  mobs  in  America,  but  none  like 
this,  wherein  nearly  five  hundred  persons,  beside  the  numerous 
victims  of  the  law,  perished  together.  Long  may  such  sangui 
nary  tempests  be  averted  from  our  land ! 


302  PROSE     MISCELLANIES. 

DESPERATION. 
A   TALE   OF   WO   AND   WEAL. 


A  GENTLEMAN,  whose  word,  like  his  penmanship,  is  straight  up  and  down,  and  de 
serving  of  credit,  has  sent  us  the  following  Tale,  which  has  about  it  a  touch  of  the 
Germanic  pencil.  The  discoverer  of  the  narrative  says  he  picked  it  up  in  Philadelphia, 
as  he  turned  from  Chestnut-street  into  Ninth,  near  the  University.  Itjis  evidently  the 
work  of  some  young  student,  who  is  merely  auto-biographical.  His  adventures,  which 
seem  to  be  described  in  a  letter,  are  not  without  parallel,  and  certainly  not  without 
warning. 


THANK  HEAVEN,  my  dear  George,  I  have  arrived  at  home, 
after  a  fortnight's  mad  siege  at  the  Great  Metropolis.  How  cu 
riously  inscrutable  are  the  freaks  of  fortune  !  Three  weeks  ago, 
I  could  scarcely  have  met  my  tailor  with  a  smile,  or  heard  a 
friend  propose  an  extra  bottle  of  Sillery  at  dinner,  without  feeling 
in  my  bosom  a  void  similar  to  that  which  reigned  in  my  purse. 
But  I  am  bravely  over  all  these  unpleasant  sensations.  Impu 
dence  and  stratagem  have  set  me  superbly  upon  my  legs.  I 
have  made  the  maxims  of  Jeremy  Diddler  my  vade  mecum  : 
and  now,  methinks,  I  could  lend  a  clever  chum  any  given  amount 
of  shekels,  within  the  circumscription  of  an  X  on  the  Monster. 
I  am  flushed  by  success,  and  '  my  countenance  gives  out  lambent 
glories.'  Every  thing  needs  a  preface,  and  my  good  fellow,  for 
what  is  to  come,  these  remarks  serve  only  as  a  head.  I  will  ad 
dress  myself  to  my  tale. 

*  Eugene  Dallas,'  said  Tom  Edwards  to  me,  as  we  sat  at  Par 
kinson's,  on  a  mild  afternoon  in  December,  discussing  a  delicious 
punch,  d  la  Romain,  *  I  have  just  been  reading  an  article  at  the 
Athenaeum,  in  a  Washington  paper,  describing  the  society  there ; 
the  beauty,  the  brilliancy,  the  life.  It  has  made  me  sick  of  col 
lege  and  books,  and  the  parties  we  meet  here  ;  where  the  music 
is  but  so-so,  the  ladies  clannish,  sometimes  dull ;  and  where  the 
young  men  line  the  long  halls  of  their  entertainers  from  parlor  to 
kitchen,  in  order  to  besiege  the  first  invoice  of  champaigne,  un 
mindful  of  the  fair,  who,  fatigued  with  moving  in  the  dance, 
await  with  Christian  patience  their  allotment  of  ice-cream,  oys 
ters,  and  chicken-salad.  I  say,  I  begin  to  tire  of  these  things. 
I  should  like  to  cut  the  town,  *  clandecently,'  for  a  fortnight  or 
so,  and  go  to  Washington.  Wouldn't  you  ?' 

THE  next  day,  we  were  warming  our  feet  by  the  stove  in  the 
gentlemen's  cabin  of  the  steam-boat,  and  watching  through  the 


DESPERATION.  303 

windows  the  receding  shores  of  Chesapeake  bay.  With  trunks 
hastily  packed,  a  confused  wardrobe,  and  only  thirty  dollars  be 
tween  us,  we  had  entered  upon  this  hair-brained  frolic.  A  hur 
ried  letter  to  one  of  the  Faculty  announced  that  we  should  be 
absent  a  week  or  two,  and  the  inference  instantly  transpired  over 
town,  that  we  had  *  gone  gunning  at  each  other,'  or  in  other 
words,  to  fight  a  duel. 

Baltimore  is  an  agreeable  place.  The  approach  to  the  city  is 
picturesque ;  the  Cathedral  and  the  Washington  Monument  rise 
magnificently  to  the  view ;  the  principal  streets  are  elegant ;  the 
ladies  petite  and  pretty.  We  staid  there  two  days ;  attended 
one  splendid  soiree ;  smelt  the  gas  foot-  lights  at  Holliday-street 
Theatre,  and  then  —  on  for  Washington. 

The  monumental  city  fades  beautifully  on  the  traveller's  eye. 
The  noble  statue  of  the  Savior  of  his  Country,  towers,  a  white 
and  shining  column  in  the  sky  ;  a  pharos  of  liberty,  sending  the 
warm  beams  of  patriotism  into  every  American  heart.  Its  tall 
form  dwindled,  over  the  brown  landscape,  to  a  slender  shaft 
against  a  gay  host  of  clouds,  as  we  rolled  toward  the  capitol. 

How  shall  I  describe  the  feelings  which  animate  a  young  citi 
zen  of  this  great  republic,  as  he  approaches  the  place  where  the 
destinies  of  a  confederacy  of  nations  are  controlled  and  guided ! 
Throned  on  a  lofty  hill,  he  sees  the  domes  of  the  capitol,  colored 
by  the  sunbeam,  and  shining  amid  the  striped  and  starry  banners 
that  roll  out  and  rustle  above  them.  A  flood  of  historic  associ 
ations  pours  upon  his  mind.  He  bethinks  him  of  the  surmount 
ed  perils  of  the  past,  and  the  unrecorded  glory  of  the  future, 
until  his  heart  and  his  eyes  are  filled  with  emotion,  and  he  rises 
with  enthusiasm  from  his  carriage-seat,  and  waving  his  hat  on 
high,  hurrahs  for  the  land  of  the  brave  and  the  free ! 

Beyond  the  capitol  lies  the  city,  covering  ground  enough  for 
half  a  dozen  times  its  houses  and  inhabitants,  yet  no  inapt  em 
blem  of  the  country  itself;  large  in  plan,  and  rapidly  fulfilling  its 
scope,  even  beyond  all  original  conjecture. 

Drove  to  Gadsby's.  Fine  house.  Good  table  d'hote,  excel 
lent  wines,  and  a  talkative  barber,  who  kills  the  English  language, 
speaking  daggers  to  it,  at  every  breath.  Went  to  the  capitol. 
How  proudly  it  rises  at  the  end  of  the  Pennsylvania  Avenue ! 
what  views  from  its  dome !  The  gay  and  winding  Potomac, 
the  outspread  city  ;  Georgetown,  Alexandria ;  the  gorge  near 
Mount  Vernon,  in  the  distance ;  the  solemn  burial  ground  of 
Congress  nearer  at  hand  ;  the  vast  doings  below  and  within  !  It 
is  a  great  place,  Washington. 


304  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

TOM  EDWARDS  had  a  senatorial  uncle  at  Washington  ;  but  I 
knew  nobody,  except  a  country  member  of  the  House  from  our 
District.  The  chances  of  admission  into  society,  therefore,  were 
good  for  him,  but  faint  for  me.  The  result  of  his  relationship 
was  an  almost  immediate  invitation  for  him,  the  next  evening,  to 

a  party  at  Sir  *  * 's,  the  Foreign  Minister.  There  was 

none  for  me  ;  but  my  wild  chum  vowed  that  I  should  go,  on  his 
introduction,  and  I  assented. 

My  first  movement  was  to  cast  about  for  a  blanchisseuse.  This 
was  easily  arranged.  But  my  dismay  can  better  be  conceived 
than  described,  when  I  found  that  I  had  left  my  best  coat  at 
home,  and  brought  away  a  cloth  one,  of  summer-green,  some 
what  marked  by  the  careless  positions  of  study.  It  had  an  unc 
tuous  collar,  and  buttons  of  disreputable  antiquity,  singularly 
rubbed  by  the  finger  of  Time.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  I  ob 
served  from  my  window  a  tailor's  sign ;  and  thither,  after  night 
fall,  I  hied.  On  the  'board,'  like  a  Turk  with  his  pipe  and 
slippers,  was  seated  an  old  Frenchman,  the  master  of  the  prem 
ises.  I  produced  my  garment,  and  desired  to  know  what  the 
swindle  would  be  for  a  new  set  of  buttons,  a  professional  reno 
vation  of  the  sleeves,  and  a  banishment  of  the  oil  from  the  col 
lar.  I  told  him  the  habit  was  an  indifferent  one,  but  that  if  he 
would  make  its  amendment  cost  me  only  a  trifle,  he  should  re 
ceive  all  my  future  patronage,  which  I  hinted  would  be  pretty 
extensive.  The  enterprise  of  the  Gallic  snip  was  awakened; 
and,  *  promise-crammed,'  he  said: 

*  You  shall  ax  me  tree  dollar.' 

*  Cheap  enough,'  said  I,  feeling  conscious  of  my  ability  for 
the  outlay,  with  a  present  sufficiency  beside,  if  Edwards  made  a 
fair  division  :   '  But  mind,  my  friend,  let  the  thing  be  nicely  done  ; 
renew  the  youth  of  the  garment,  and  let  the  buttons  be  yellow, 
flashy,  and  fashionable.' 

*  Certainment,  Monsieur,'  replied  the  complaisant  artisan ;  and 
I  took  my  leave. 

THE  brilliant  apartments  of  Sir  *  * never  looked  more 

brilliant,  I  am  sure,  than  they  did  on  the  next  evening  after  this 
economical  colloquy.  Tom  bowed  me  in,  but  by  what  species 
of  social  smuggling,  I  am  unable  to  tell.  At  any  rate,  in  I  was,  el 
bowing  my  trembling  way  through  a  glittering  maze  of  beauty 
and  fashion,  humming  with  small-talk,  and  shining  in  gorgeous 
apparel.  Supposing  Edwards  at  my  side,  I  turned  my  head  to 
address  him.  The  fellow  had  gone.  It  was  indispensable  to  seek 
him  ;  and,  *  all  unknowing  and  unknown,'  I  attempted  an  awkward 


DESPERATION.  305 

retrogression  for  the  purpose.  At  that  instant,  I  saw  him  bowing 
to  a  splendid  young  creature  of  about  sixteen  :  at  the  next,  they 
were  standing  together  in  a  cotillon.  I  edged  my  way  thither, 
and  gave  him  a  supplicating  look,  which  said,  '  Do,  my  good  fel 
low,  introduce  me  to  somebody.'  The  mischievous  wretch 
glanced  at  me,  with  an  eye  whose  oblique  winter  I  shall  never 
forget.  He  cut  me  dead  !  He  had  a  malicious  smirk  on  his 
phiz,  which  expressed  the  meditated  deviltry  that  was  working  in 
his  mind.  My  pride  was  roused,  and  I  was  determined  to  show 
him  my  independence  of  his  protection.  Fortunately,  I  saw 
close  at  hand,  a  young  gentleman,  with  whom  I  had  formed  a 
slight  dinner-table  acquaintance  at  Gadsby's.  I  am  not  ungenteel ; 
the  blood  of  wounded  pride  was  in  my  cheek,  its  fire  was  in  my 
eyes ;  and  as  to  dress,  thanks  to  the  felicitous  metamorphosis  of 
the  old  tailor,  my  coat  was  handsomer  than  ever.  My  other  ap 
pointments  were  unexceptionable.  I  tied  a  good  neckcloth ;  my 
buttons  shone  lustrously,  and  my  linen  was  fair  as  the  broidered 
sails  of  Tyre.  Never  did  I  look  more  like  a  gallant,  comme  il 
Jaut.  My  mere  presence  at  the  party  established  a  claim  to  my 
new  friend's  attention  ;  so,  stepping  up  to  him,  I  bowed  obse 
quiously,  and  said :  '  Do  you  know  that  beautiful  young  lady 
yonder,  whom  you  are  regarding  with  such  devoted  attention  ?' 

*  No,'  said  he  politely ;  *  by  Jove,  I  wish  1  did  !'     I  touched  his 
arm,  and  insinuated  a  white  lie  into  his  ear.     *  You  shall  know 
her.     I  can  effect  that  for  you.     But  first,  let  me  beg  you  to  ac 
quaint  me  with  the  lady  to  whom  I  saw  you  just  now  so  courte 
ous  and  cordial.' 

*  Certainly,'  was  the  answer  ;  and  it  was  done. 

I  flourished  like  a  prince  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening ; 
and  through  the  diplomacy  of  my  first  fair  partner  in  the  dance, 
was  enabled  to  perform  my  promise  to  my  friend,  being  first  in 
troduced  myself.  The  strategic  of  that  night  could  not  be  sur 
passed.  I  flirted  with  bevies  of  beauty  ;  and  while  walking  in  a 
general  march  through  the  rooms,  with  the  gay  daughters  of  two 
certain  Secretaries  in  the  Department,  Tom  Edwards  passed  me: 
'  Huge?  said  he,  (this  was  his  abbreviation  for  Eugene,)  '  you  are 
well  supported,  eh  ?  Army  and  Navy  !' 

4  Sir  /'  I  replied,  staring  at  him,  *  who  are  you  ?  You  are 
mistaken.'  Tom  quailed  away,  looking  daggers  at  me,  which  I 
forgot  in  a  moment.  The  excitement  of  wine,  the  glitter  of 
lights,  the  sweet  gushes  of  music,  thrilled  through  my  nerves; 
while,  amid  the  rich  odors  of  scented  kid  gloves  and  'kerchiefs, 

*  the  rustling  of  silks  and  the  creaking  of  shoes  betrayed  my  fond 
heart  to  woman.'     It  was  an  evening,  to  my  apprehension,  that 

20 


306  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

might  have  been  stolen,  with  all  its  dramatis  personae  of  the 
opposite  sex,  fresh  from  Paradise. 

As  the  visitors  began  to  lessen,  I  saw  afar  the  country  member 
from  our  District.  He  was  obviously  out  of  his  element.  He 
moved  like  a  bear  among  young  chickens.  His  white  cravat, 
which  was  tied  behind  his  neck,  where  the  ends  projected  among 
his  lank  and  tallowy  locks,  awakened  a  doubt  whether  it  was  in 
use  for  ornament  or  strangulation.  Had  it  been  a  thought  tight 
er,  that  necessary  vessel  called  the  jugular  would  have  been  a 
useless  conduit.  His  face  was  like  to  the  setting  sun,  in  an  Inr 
dian  summer.  He  was  making  toward  me,  with  his  broad  hands 
spread  on  his  black  tabby-velvet  vest,  his  thumbs  inserted  in  the 
arm-holes ;  whereupon  1  decamped,  for  fear  of  an  interview. 

I  took  my  breakfast  the  next  day  at  five  o'clock,  p.  M.  In 
my  room,  I  found  a  note  to  my  address,  in  Tom's  chirography. 
It  discoursed  to  me  thus : 

Gadslifs,  9  o'clock,  A.  M. 
DEAR  HUGE  : 

I  AM  gone  to  spend  a  fortnight,  in  a  Christmas  festival,  with 
some  friends  in  Virginia.  I  enclose  a  regular  division  of  our 
joint  funds.  I  have  spoken  to  my  uncle  about  our  hotel  bills 
here,  and  he  will  fix  them.  It  is  all  understood.  You  can  stay 
a  fortnight  if  you  like ;  though  how  you'll  get  back  to  Philadel 
phia,  after  that,  the  Lord  only  knows.  Perhaps  you  may  ac 
complish  the  transit  without  trouble  :  if  so,  I  shall  be,  (as  I  was 
last  night,  when  I  thought  I  knew  you,)  mistaken. 

Yours'         TOM. 

Here  was  a  pretty  business  !  He  had  enclosed  me  Jive  dol 
lars  !  In  my  perplexity,  I  was  on  the  point  of  descending  to- 
book  myself  to  Baltimore,  when  I  remembered  that  I  had  re 
ceived  two  verbal  invitations  to  parties,  early  in  the  ensuing 
week,  and  one  from  my  fair  first  acquaintance  of  the  preceding 
evening,  to  accompany  her  to  church  on  the  morrow,  which  was 
Sunday,  and  hear  her  favorite  parson  *  bray  canticles.' 

There  was  no  alternative.  I  must  stay  a  week  ;  and  stay  I 
did.  My  five  dwindled  to  three.  I  had  glorious  times  in  society, 
but  when  I  thought  of  my  breeches  pocket  my  suspense  was  ac 
tually  horrid.  Could  some  stout  pugilist  have  knocked  me  into 
the  middle  of  the  next  month,  I  should  have  blessed  the  trans 
portation.  The  future  seemed  a  blank,  and  Philadelphia  as  in- 
accesible  as  Jerusalem. 


DESPERATION.  307 

*  ALL  settled,  Sir,'  said  the  bar-keeper,  as  I  asked  him  the 
amount  of  my  bill.     I  forgave  Tom  on  the  instant.     I  had  feared, 
for  a  week,  that  it  would  all  be  a  trick,  though  I  dared  not  ask. 

*  What  is  the  fare  to  Baltimore,  in  a  private  carriage  ?' 

*  Five  dollars,  Sir ;   but  here  is  a  barouche,  about  to  leave 
with  some  passengers,  in  which  you  may  have  a  seat  for  three.' 

I  paid  out  the  last  cash  of  which  I  stood  possessed,  and  seeing 
my  trunk  properly  lashed,  embarked.  After  taking  a  final  look 
at  the  city  and  the  Capitol,  as  we  rolled  away  from  the  metropo 
lis,  I  was  in  an  unbroken  reverie,  till  the  domes  and  pillars  of 
Baltimore  rose  again  to  view.  We  wheeled  on,  until  by  the  in 
creased  rattling,  I  found  we  were  on  the  city  pavements. 

'At  what  hotel  shall  I  set  you  down,  Sir?'  said  the  driver, 
touching  his  hat. 

I  was  in  a  quandary  ;  and  so  I  answered  his  question  by  ask 
ing  another.  *  Do  you  know  any  quiet  and  fashionable,  but  re 
tired  hotel,  near  the  centre  of  the  town  ?' 

*  Oh,  yes,  Sir ;'  and  he  deposited  me  accordingly. 

I  did  not  put  my  name  on  any  book,  but  was  shown  directly 
to  my  room.  It  was  a  pleasant  one,  commanding  a  distant  view 
of  the  Great  Square  and  Battle  Monument.  Here  I  staid  three 
days  ;  eating  my  meals  stealthily,  and  being  out  nearly  all  the 
time.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  I  resolved  to  disclose 
my  condition ;  and  to  nerve  myself  for  the  effort,  I  ordered  din 
ner  and  wine  in  my  room.  I  determined  if  a  splendid  repast 
and  sundry  bottles  of  good  wine  would  screw  my  courage  up, 
that  it  should  arrive  before  bed-time  at  a  proper  tension.  I  re 
gret  to  say,  when  I  had  finished  my  dinner,  and  punished  an 
unusual  quantity  of  champaigne,  all  alone,  that  I  was,  as  Southey 
says  of  the  sky,  in  Madoc, 

*  Most  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue ." 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  I  retired  to  bed,  after  a  lusty 
pull  at  the  bell.  The  servant  came. 

*  Ask  the  landlord  to  step  up  to  my  room,  and  bring  his  bill.' 
He  clattered    down   stairs,  giggling,  and   shortly  thereafter  his 
master   appeared.      He    entered  with    a   generous   smile,    that 
made  me  hope  for  'the  best  his  house  afforded,'  and  that,  just 
then,  was  credit. 

*  How  much  do  I  owe  you  ?'  said  I.     He  handed  me  the  bill 
with  all  the  grace  of  polite  expectancy. 

4  Let  me  see — seventeen  dollars.  How  very  reasonable! 
But  my  dear  Sir,  the  most  disagreeable  part  of  this  matter  is 
now  to  be  disclosed.  I  grieve  to  inform  you  that,  at  present,  I 


308  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

am  out  of  money :  but  I  know,  by  your  philanthropic  looks,  that 
you  will  be  satisfied  when  I  tell  you  that  if  I  had  it,  I  would 
give  it  to  you  with  unqualified  pleasure.  But  you  see  my  not 
having  the  change  by  me  is  the  reason  I  can't  do  it;  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  let  the  matter  stand,  and  say  no  more  about  it.  I 
am  a  stranger  to  you,  that's  a  fact ;  but  in  the  place  where  I 
came  from,  all  my  acquaintances  know  me,  as  easy  as  can  be.' 

The  landlord  turned  all  colors.  '  Where  do  you  live,  any 
how?' 

'  In  Washing I  should  say  in  Philadelphia.' 

His  eye  flashed  with  angry  disappointment.  « I  see  how  it  is, 
Mister :  my  opinion  is,  that  you  are  a  black-leg.  You  don't 
know  where  your  home  is.  You  begin  with  Washington,  and 
then  drop  it  for  Philadelphia.  You  must  pay  your  bill.' 

*  But  I  can't.' 

*  Then  I'll  take  your  clothes  ;  if  I  don't,  blow  me  tight !' 

'  Scoundrel !'  said  Arising  bolt  upright :  *  Do  it,  if  you  dare! 
do  it! — and  leave  the  rest  to  me  !' 

There  were  no  more  words.  He  arose,  deliberately  seized 
my  hat,  and  my  only  inexpressibles,  and  walked  down  stairs. 

Physicians  say  that  no  two  excitements  can  exist  at  the  same 
time  in  one  system.  External  circumstances  drove  away,  almost 
immediately,  the  confusion  of  my  brain. 

I  arose  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  snow  was  de 
scending,  as  I  drummed  on  the  pane.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  An 
unhappy  wight,  sans  culottes,  in  a  strange  city ;  no  money,  and 
slightly  inebriated.  A  thought  struck  me.  I  had  a  large,  full 
cloak,  which,  with  all  my  other  appointments,  save  those  he  took, 
the  landlord  had  spared.  I  dressed  immediately ;  drew  on  my 
boots  over  my  fair  white  drawers,  not  unlike  small  clothes ;  put 
on  my  cravat,  vest,  and  coat ;  laid  a  travelling  cap  from  my 
trunk,  jauntily  over  my  forehead,  and  flinging  my  fine  long  man 
tle  gracefully  about  me,  made  my  way  through  the  hall  into  the 
street. 

Attracted  by  shining  lamps  in  the  portico  of  a  new  hotel,  a 
few  squares  from  my  first  lodgings,  I  entered,  recorded  some 
name  on  the  books,  and  bespoke  a  bed.  Everything  was  fresh 
and  neat ;  every  servant  attentive ;  all  augured  well.  I  kept 
myself  closely  cloaked  ;  puffed  a  cigar,  and  retired  to  bed,  to 
mature  my  plot.  

*  WAITER,  just  brush  my  clothes,  well,  my  fine  fellow,'  said  I, 
in  the  morning,  as  he  entered  my  room.     '  Mind  the  pantaloons  ; 
don't  spill  anything  from  the  pockets ;  there  is  money  in  both.' 


DESPERATION.      .  309 

*  I  don't  see  no  pantaloons.' 

'  The  devil  you  don't !     Where  are  they  ?' 

'Can't  tell,  I'm  sure  :  I  don't  know,  s 'elp  me  GOD.' 

'  Go  down,  Sirrah,  and  tell  your  master  to  come  up  here  im 
mediately.'  The  publican  was  with  me  in  a  moment. 

I  had  arisen  and  worked  my  face  before  the  glass  into  a  fiend 
ish  look  of  passion.  l  Landlord  !'  exclaimed  I,  with  a  fierce 
gesture,  '  I  have  been  robbed  in  your  house ;  robbed,  Sir,  robbed ! 
My  pantaloons,  and  a  purse  containing  three  fifty  dollar-notes, 
are  gone.  This  is  a  pretty  hotel !  Is  this  the  way  that  you  ful 
fil  the  injunctions  of  Scripture  ?  I  am  a  stranger,  and  I  find  my 
self  taken  in,  with  a  vengeance.  I  will  expose  you  at  once,  if  I 
am  not  recompensed.' 

'  Pray  keep  your  temper,'  said  the  agitated  publican.  '  I  have 
just  opened  this  house,  and  it  is  getting  a  good  run  :  would  you 
ruin  its  reputation,  for  an  accident  ?  I  will  find  out  the  villain 
who  has  robbed  you,  and  I  will  send  for  a  tailor  to  measure  you 
for  your  missing  garment.  Your  money  shall  be  refunded.  Do 
you  not  see  that  your  anger  is  useless  ?' 

'  My  dear  Sir,'  I  replied.  '  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  I 
did  not  mean  to  reproach  you.  If  those  trowsers  can  be  done 
to-day,  I  shall  be  satisfied  ;  for  time  is  more  precious  to  me  than 
money.  You  may  keep  the  others  if  you  find  them,  and  in  ex 
change  for  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  which  you  give  me, 
their  contents  are  yours. 

The  next  evening,  with  new  inexpressibles,  and  one  hundred 
and  forty  dollars  in  my  purse,  I  called  on  my  guardian  in  Phila 
delphia  for  sixty  dollars.  He  gave  it,  with  a  lecture  on  collegi 
ate  desertion,  that  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  I  enclosed  the  money- 
back  to  my  honorable  landlord,  by  the  first  post,  settled  my  other 
bill  at  old  Crusty's,  the  first  publican,  and  got  my  trunk  by  mail. 
I  have  now  a  superflux  of  thirty  dollars ;  and  when  Tom  Ed 
wards  returns,  if  I  can  find  no  other  use  for  it,  I  will  give  it  to 
him,  for  the  lesson  he  has  taught  me. 

If  this  story  has  bored  you,  George,  you  must  forgive  it.  It 
is  pleasanter  to  remember,  being  past,  than  it  is  to  tell. 

Cordially  Thine, 

EUGENE  DALLAS. 


310  PROSE    MISCELLANIES 


CONTEMPORARIES. 

'T  is  a  queer  word.  Where  or  how  it  first  came  into  use,  the 
memory  of  man  scarce  can  tell.  Political  editors  use  it  when 
they  wish  to  deal  sly  cuts  at  each  other,  without  calling  hard 
names ;  and  it  is,  in  truth,  one  of  the  commonest  little  fragments 
of  parlance  extant.  How  journalists  would  get  on  without  it, 
passes  conjecture.  This,  with  the  phrase  '  some  people,'  and 
'  certain  persons,'  gives  them  ample  room  for  oblique  thrusts  and 
anonymous  allusions.  Verily,  they  have  reason  to  bless  the 
word. 

But  it  is  not  alone  in  the  word  itself  that  interest  lodges.  It 
is  an  honor  to  be  contemporary  with  the  great — I  mean  the  for- 
tunate  great,  who  happen  to  receive  during  their  natural  term  of 
life  that  reward  and  renown  which  are  often  left  to  fling  a  halo 
about  the  tomb,  and  ring  triumphant  music  in  the  dull  ear  of 
death.  Who  among  the  young  does  not  look  with  a  kind  of  envy 
upon  the  aged  acquaintance  that  has  seen  General  WASHING 
TON,  and  was  a  contemporary  with  him  ?  I  have  a  friend,  now 
just  in  the  best  part  of  manhood,  who  loves  to  tell  how  he  met 
the  Father  of  his  Country,  when  Congress  sat  in  Philadelphia. 
The  lad  was  playing  in  the  State  House  Square,  with  some  young 
companions,  while  Washington  passed  along.  '  There's  the  Com 
mander  in  Chief,'  said  a  dozen  voices.  All  the  little  company 
ran  to  meet  him.  A  storm  was  approaching ;  and  my  friend, 
drawing  near  to  Washington,  offered  him  an  umbrella.  Several 
others  did  the  same.  '  No,  my  dear  lads,'  said  the  Pater  Patriae, 
*  keep  your  umbrellas  for  yourselves  ;  I  have  been  in  many 
storms,  and  can  endure  them.'  There  is  not  a  lad,  present  at 
that  time,  who  does  not  recall  the  circumstance  with  pleasure, 
and  feel  a  delight  in  saying,  '  Washington  was  my  contempo 
rary  !' 

There  is  something  in  the  grave,  which  hallows  the  goodness, 
as  it  buries  the  foibles,  of  its  tenant.  The  form  which  wastes 
away  within  its  precincts,  has  ceased  to  move  and  to  be.  Per 
haps  it  had  numerous  enemies  :  perhaps  some  imperious  spirit 
agitated  that  mouldering  heart,  and  fired  that  busy  brain.  But 
death  smote  them,  and  that  form  was  no  more  the  object  of  dis- 
esteem,  or  the  nucleus  of  envious  fancies.  Post  mortem  cessat 
invidia.  No  longer  contemporary,  the  vices  and  the  goodness  of 
the  common  departed,  become,  the  one  softened,  the  other  en 
larged,  to  the  imagination.  Above,  the  sun  rolls  round  upon  his 


CONTEMPORARIES.  311 

circuit,  in  his  chariot  of  gold  ;  the  winds  dispense  abroad  the  mu 
sic  of  streams  and  the  breath  of  flowers  ;  contemporaries  hear  and 
inhale  them ;  but  One  has  gone.  He  enjoys  them  no  more.  He 
has  travelled  along  the  twilight  vale  of  his  decline,  and  is  lost  from 
among  the  living. 

I  have  often  thought,  when  looking  at  some  patriotic  spectacle 
at  the  theatres,  on  a  Fourth  of  July  evening  ;  when  the  apotheo 
sis  of  our  Great  Departed  has  been  pictured  forth,  accompanied 
with  solemn  and  mournful  music,  ending  at  last  in  triumphant 
harmony ;  I  have  thought,  I  say,  what  a  sensation  would  be  pro 
duced,  were  the  men  thus  honored  to  enter  the  theatre  in  the 
flesh,  clothed,  and  with  bones  and  sinews !  Awe  and  wonder 
would  possess  the  multitude.  Women  would  faint ;  and  men, 
iron-hearted  men,  would  weep  for  very  enthusiasm.  But  let  the 
wonder  cease ;  let  the  re-appearance  of  these  great  men  be  ac 
counted  for  on  some  rational  principle,  supposing  that  possible, 
and  those  restored  patriots,  being  contemporary,  would  soon  be 
talked  of  with  the  same  freedom  that  has  ever  distinguished  and 
yet  distinguishes  the  political  contests  of  this  nation  ;  a  freedom, 
from  which  even  the  character  of  Washington,  spotless  as  it  was, 
could  not  always  be  sacred. 

The  farther  we  go  into  the  past,  the  greater  is  our  wonder  at 
any  thing  which  brings  those  olden  ages  near.  Thus  a  mummy, 
preserved  for  dozens  of  centuries,  is  truly  a  marvellous  object. 
We  look  upon  the  antiquated  face,  once  fanned  by  the  airs  of 
Egypt ;  on  the  closed  lids  that  perhaps  opened  to  greet  the  sun 
light  as  it  poured  its  matin  influence  on  the  harmonious  Memnon  ; 
on  the  hands  that  may  have  woven  the  broidered  sails  of  Tyrus, 
or  waved  some  signal  of  applause  to  Ptolemy  or  Cleopatra.  A 
British  Poet  has  indulged  in  some  beautiful  reflections  on  this  sub 
ject,  suggested  by  seeing  one  of  these  Ancient  of  Days  in  the  ex 
hibition  of  Belzoni,  at  London.  They  are  in  the  form  of  an  ad 
dress  to  the  mummy : 

I  NEED  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  arm'd, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled, 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled  : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 

We  above  ground  have  seen  some  strange  mutations; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended, 

New  worlds  have  risen,  we  have  lost  old  nations; 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 


312  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

March'd  armies  o'er  thy  tomb,  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Opus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 
When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  ; 
A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  vest, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled  ; 
Have  children  climb'd  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face  ? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age,  and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh  —  immortal  of  the  dead1! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quit'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence, 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning  ! 

Distance,  which  in  space  belittles  objects,  in  time  enlarges 
them.  That  which  time  spares,  it  hallows  or  curses.  It  bears 
to  after  ages  the  brightness  of  a  mighty  reputation,  or  it  adds 
fresh  grimness  to  *  a  wounded  name.'  Its  plaudits  and  its  an 
athemas  are  alike  enduring  ;  and  that  which,  when  contemporary, 
was  not  deemed  especially  worthy  of  either,  has  its  claims 
strengthened  in  the  lapse  of  years. 

Contemporaries  !  Could  any  one  go  back  into  bodily  presence, 
as  we  may  in  mind,  among  the  great  beings  of  the  past — great 
for  good  or  evil — how  common-place  would  seem  to  him  the 
thousand  objects  which  history,  and  those  deeds  that  ages  sanc 
tify,  and  fate,  preserve  immortal !  That  traveller  into  antiquity 
might  sport  with  Anthony  in  his  voyages,  with  the  dark  eyes  of 
'his  Egypt'  darting  their  liquid  lustre,  and  witness  the  mighty 
littleness  of  the  loving  Roman  ;  he  could  stray  with  the  philoso 
phers  through  the  groves  of  Athens  ;  find  Aristotle  writing  hymns 
to  please  his  sense,  and  gratify  the  master  of  a  concubine,  not 
withstanding  his  ethics  that  sense  was  non-essential  to  happiness ; 
he  might  see  Tiberius  fight  with  an  oysterman,  or  hear  Nero  fiddle. 
Coming  slowly  down  the  vista  of  years,  he  might  hear  Shaks- 
peare  play  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  in  London,  or  enjoy  his  early 
and  ample  fortune  at  Avon ;  he  might  play  with  Goldsmith,  dine 
with  Milton,  at  Mr.  Russell's  the  tailor's ;  or  laugh  at  Thomson 
as  he  sat  on  the  fence  of  his  rural  retreat,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  eating  out  the  blushing  and  sunny  sides  of  peaches  in 
his  garden,  that  he  was  too  lazy  to  pick !  This  traveller,  too, 
might  see  what  were  the  real  knights  of  chivalry,  about  whom  so 
much  is  prated  in  these  degenerate  days.  He  would  find  them 


CONTEMPORARIES. 

boisterous,  revengeful,  bilious  and  dishonest  fellows  ;  vulgar  in 
attire,  awkward  in  harness,  covered  with  salve-patches  on  their 
arms  and  legs,  where  they  were  galled  with  their  iron  mail,  and 
leaving  their  scores  at  the  blacksmith's  shops  unpaid,  all  the  way 
from  France  and  Britain,  even  to  the  Holy  Land.  Alas !  how 
much  of  romance  fades  away  in  that  one  word,  contemporary  ! 
It  is  ratsbane  to  the  imagination  ;  it  is  a  green  shade  over  the 
eagle  eye  of  Genius  ! 

For  heroes  whose  lives  are  passed  at  the  head  of  armies,  amid 
'  the  stir  of  camps  and  the  revelries  of  garrisons  ;'  who  are  from 
year  to  year  the  observed  of  all  observers ;  for  them,  there  is  the 
reward  of  their  own  era.  Such  men  enjoy  during  their  own  mor 
tal  span  a  kind  of  antepast  of  that  renown  which  settles  after 
death  upon  their  name.  But  they  pay  heavily  for  their  glory,  by 
the  responsibility  and  peril  in  which  they  exist.  Failure  even  in 
judgment  would  be  ignominy  ;  multitudes  of  restless  spirits  are  to 
be  guided  and  kept  subordinate  by  their  power,  kindness,  and 
skill ;  and  what  with  one  object  and  another  to  harass  and  dis 
tress  them,  their  lives  are  passed  upon  the  rack,  and  they  pay 
dearly  enough  for  that  two-penny  whistle,  posthumous  fame.  It 
is  only  by  the  bustle  and  turmoil  in  which  they  live,  that  they  re 
ceive  more  passing  applause  than  the  quiet  civilian,  whose  works 
and  merits,  after  his  departure,  add  radiance  to  his  name. 

I  have  said  that,  to  be  a  contemporary,  is  to  be  belittled.  The 
remark  is  true,  indubitably.  I  might  prove  it  by  a  thousand  in 
stances,  but  I  will  content  myself  with  a  very  few.  Homer  was 
called  by  Aristarchus,  a  vain,  foolish  fellow,  who  fancied  he 
could  make  poetry,  and  under  that  delusion  had  produced  his 
stupid  Iliad,  whose  speedy  transit  to  oblivion  was  confidently 
predicted.  Now  his  fame  fills  the  .world.  When  Milton's  Para 
dise  Lost  appeared,  a  contemporary  critic  condemned  it  as  trash  ; 
and  it  sold  for  fifteen  pounds.  Now  it  is  immortal.  Every  body 
will  acknowledge  that  Shakspeare  was  a  poet  whose  works  are 
imperishable ;  whose  observation  was  unfailing ;  who  looked 
through  Nature  ;  whose  pathos  and  humor  are  irresistible  ;  who 
was,  in  short,  at  once  sublime,  yet  simple  and  delicate  ;  touching 
and  witty,  deep  and  playful.  He  was  such  a  man  as  centuries 
do  not  match  or  approach.  And  how  would  these  eulogistic 
words  have  been  received  in  his  time  ?  As  downright  hyperbole. 
He  was  probably  looked  upon  in  pretty  much  the  same  light  as 
Sheridan  Knowles,  that  fine  poet  of  humanity,  is  now  viewed  in 
London ;  namely,  as  a  man  who  wrote  plays,  and  acted  parts  in 
them.  The  majority  of  the  common  people  undoubtedly  es 
teemed  him  '  no  great  shakes.1  I  find  in  the  chronicle  of  a  quaint 


314  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

historian  of  Shakspeare  and  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  the  follow 
ing  venerable  sketch,  which  shows  that  the  Swan  of  Avon  stood 
but  indifferent  well :  *  Our  modern  and  present  excellent  poets 
which  worthily  in  their  owne  workes,  and  alle  of  them  in  my  owne 
knowledge  lived  in  this  Queene's*  reigne,  according  to  their  pri 
orities,  as  neere  as  I  could,  I  have  orderly  sette  downe,  (viz.) 
George  Gascoigne,  Esquire,  Thomas  Church-yard,  Esquire,  Ed 
ward  Dyer,  Knight,  Edmond  Spenser,  Esquire,  Sir  Philip  Sid 
ney,  Knight,  Sir  Thomas  Chaloner,  Knight ;  Sir  Francis  Bacon, 
Knight,  and  Sir  John  Davie,  Knight ;  Master  John  Lillie,  gen 
tleman,  Master  George  Chapman,  gentleman,  Master  William 
Warner,  gentleman,  Mast.  Wil.  Skaks-peare,  gent. ;  Samuel 
Davie  of  the  Bath,  Master  Christopher  Mario,  gent.  ;  Master 
Benjamin  Jonson,  gent. ;  John  Marston,  esquire  ;  Master  Abm. 
Francis,  gent. ;  Francis  Meers,  gent. ;  Master  Joshua  Sylvester, 
gent. ;  Master  Thomas  Decker,  gent. ;  John  Mecher,  gent. ;  John 
Webster,  gent, ;  Thomas  Haywood,  gent.  ;  Thomas  Middleton, 
gent.  ;  and  George  Withers.' 

Now  of  all  the  poets,  here  '  orderly  sette  downe,  according  to 
their  priorities,'1  how  few  survive  !  We  have  a  host  of  knights 
and  esquires,  of  whom,  with  a  few  exceptions,  nothing  is  known  : 
and  after  Masters  Chapman  and  Billy  Warner,  we  have  '  Mast. 
Wil.  Shaks-peare  !'  Of  his  fellow-bards,  with  some  omissions, 
what  have  we  heard  ?  What  of  Chaloner,  Davie,  Lillie,  Web 
ster,  Meers,  Sylvester,  and  Thomas  Church-yard,  eke  ?  We  can 
only  fancy  the  latter  a  melancholy  writer,  but  darkness  covers 
nearly  all  the  rest.  Doubtless  Shakspeare  conceived  himself  in 
ferior  to  all  those  whose  names  here  precede  his  ;  and  therein, 
(with  the  exclusion  of  his  king  and  queen,  and  a  few  choice, 
learned  spirits,  who  knew  his  surpassing  power,)  he  probably  co 
incided  with  the  general  impression  of  his  merits.  Such  is  the 
judgment  of  '  contemporaries  !' 

*  Elizabeth. 


LEAVES    PROM    AN    AERONOUT.  315 


LEAVES    FROM   AN    AERONAUT. 

«  BUT  in  Man's  dwellings,  he  became  a  thing, 
Restless,  and  worn,  and  stern,  and  wearisome ; 

Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon,  with  dipt  wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home.'  BTRON. 

I  HAVE  realized  one  of  the  dreams  of  my  youth,  and  gratified 
the  strongest  aspirations  that  ever  agitated  my  manhood.  I  look 
back  with  a  kind  of  intoxicating  bewilderment  upon  the  perils  I 
have  encountered,  and  the  fears  I  have  subdued  ;  for,  to  me,  the 
memory  of  excitement  is  excitement  still. 

My  early  days  were  passed  in  a  village  in  the  country.  I  first 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  light,  near  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  ;  and 
my  juvenile  hours  were  full  of  the  most  flighty  visions.  I  always 
had  a  very  aerial  imagination.  Anything  in  motion  always  had 
for  me  a  peculiar  charm.  I  shall  never  forget  the  delight  I  ex 
perienced  in  seeing  the  doves  fly  from  their  shelter  in  the  end  of 
my  father's  carriage-house.  They  would  alight,  and  poise  them 
selves  for  a  moment  on  the  eaves,  turn  their  bright  necks  in  the 
sunlight,  pour  forth  a  few  reedy  murmurs,  and  then  launch  out 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  air.  Often,  in  the  fulness  of  youthful  de 
sire,  have  I  felt  ready  to  say : 

'  Oh,  for  thy  wings  !  thou  dove, 
Now  sailing  by,  with  sunshine  on  thy  breast, 

Thou  thing  of  joy  and  love, 
That  I  might  soar  away,  and  be  at  rest !' 

My  school-bench  commanded  a  view  of  a  long  and  distant 
range  of  the  Kaatskills,  lifting  their  tall  summits  aloft,  '  and  print 
ing  their  bold  outlines  against  the  sky.'  How  did  I  love  to  watch 
the  evening  clouds  as  they  drave  before  the  summer  gale,  along 
those  gigantic  tumuli  of  blue,  in  throngs  of  gold  and  purple,  mag 
nificent  waftage,  of  rack  undislimned  !  My  ardent  fancy  peo 
pled  them  with  fairy  inhabitants.  Sometimes,  castles  and  cities 
seemed  rising  from  them,  groves  nodded  in  beauty,  and  some 
times  there  would  seem  to  spring  up  from  their  midst  a  mighty 
rock  '  o'erhanging  as  it  rose,  impossible  to  climb.'  I  used  to 
think  how  those  misty  peaks  of  cloud  could  be  surmounted,  and 
was  wont  to  muse  and  dream  over  my  shut  arithmetic,  until  I 
thought  myself  among  them. 

With  my  years,  this  soaring  passion  increased  within  me.  I 
constructed  large  paper-kites,  and  sent  them  out  of  sight,  at  the 
of  some  thousand  yards  of  twine,  procured  by  the  outlay  of 


316  PROSE     MISCELLANIES. 

every  cent  of  my  pocket-money  for  holidays.  My  heart  bounded 
with  every  move  of  those  bird-like  objects.  Finally,  I  construct 
ed  one  of  linen,  nearly  six  feet  long ;  and,  considering  the  shape 
of  a  kite,  proportionably  wide.  I  had  conceived  the  idea  of  send 
ing  up  a  cat  at  the  end  of  it,  suspended  a  few  feet  from  the  paper 
tail.  One  gusty  afternoon  in  autumn,  I  attempted  the  enterprise. 
Taking  the  kite  on  the  terrace  of  my  father's  house,  with  the  cat 
tied  to  a  chair,  I  arranged  my  large  spindle  of  almost  intermina 
ble  twine,  and  perfected  my  arrangements.  I  secured  the  affec 
tionate  old  grimalkin  to  the  cord,  and  attached  it  to  the  kite,  which 
I  had  much  ado  to  hold  steadily  in  my  hand,  for  the  violence  of 
the  gale.  Swinging  the  affair  over  the  balustrade,  I  let  the 
small  windlass  slowly  unroll  with  my  left  hand,  while  with  my 
right  I  held  the  cat  by  the  soft  velvet  strap  which  I  had  tied 
around  her  body,  just  behind  her  fore-legs. 

The  kite  was  now  moving  slowly  upward,  and  puss  was 
purring  most  cordially,  '  her  custom  always  of  an  afternoon/ 
As  soon  as  the  kite  rose  above  the  garden  trees,  it  felt  the  full 
press  of  the  wind,  and  rushed  upward  like  an  arrow.  At  this 
juncture,  my  venerable  tabby  was  lifted  from  the  chair  where  she 
stood  in  unsuspecting  quietude,  and  went  dangling  off,  zenith- 
ward.  As  I  heard  her  hysterical  yowlings  grow  fainter  and  fainter, 
and  saw  her  feline  corporation  fading  into  indistinctness  on  the 
edge  of  a  cloud,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had  performed 
one  of  the  greatest  achievements  ever  consummated  by  man.  That 
curious,  Yankee-like  Ancient,  who  stumped  about,  crying  Eure- 
Tca  !  on  making  his  great  discovery,  could  not  have  enjoyed  him 
self  more,  in  that  paroxysm  of  rapture,  than  I  did  when  I  heard 
and  saw  that  old  puss  squalling  her  way  into  ether.  When  the 
twine  had  completely  unrolled,  she  was  entirely  out  of  sight, 
among  the  clouds.  I  tied  my  string  to  the  balustrade,  and  let 
the  poor  old  quadruped  remain  in  nubibus,  by  the  space  of  three 
hours,  when  I  wound  her  down,  wet  and  shivering.  Her  large 
green  eyes  were  dilated  with  fear,  and  their  sockets  looked  as  if 
they  would  soon  have  had,  to  use  a  boarding-school  phrase,  *  a 
vacancy  for  pupils.' 

But  this  adventure  did  not  satisfy  my  ambition,  I  wished  to 
be,  personally,  in  the  air.  The  blue  fields  above  me  looked  ever 
to  my  eye,  like  the  abodes  of  beauty  and  peace.  One  afternoon, 
about  this  period,  I  gave  notice  to  my  school-mates,  that  I  would 
treat  them  to  a  specimen  of '  the  art  of  sinking,'  from  the  roof  of 
the  village  academy,  a  stone  edifice,  five  stories  high.  Choosing 
a  breezy  day,  and  having  each  hand  occupied  with  a  large  um 
brella,  made  for  the  occasion,  I  stalked  gingerly  out  of  the  dor- 


LEAVES  FROM  AN  AERONAUT.         317 

mer  window  of  the  cupola,  and  walking  to  the  end  of  the  roof, 
looked  down  upon  a  whole  green-full  of  spectators.  I  had  ex 
perimented,  previously,  as  an  amateur,  from  divers  heights,  without 
injury.  Getting  a  little  dizzy,  I  opened  my  umbrellas,  and  made 
the  spring.  I  descended  with  a  decent  slowness  at  first,  but  the 
operation  of  gravity  upon  me,  after  I  passed  the  second  story, 
was  too  strong  for  breath,  or  comfort.  I  struck  the  ground  with 
force  enough  to  cut  my  tongue  desperately  between  my  teeth,  (for 
I  suppose  I  was  about  to  say  something  in  the  ejaculative  way,) 
and  to  be  jarred  into  a  state  of  feeling  like  that  of  a  glass  of  jelly, 
allowing  that  article  to  have  the  capacity  of  sensation.  I  rose  to 
my  feet,  laughing  as  if  the  exploit  were  a  fine  one,  and  I  delight 
ed  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  with  my  mouth  full  of  blood. 

The  memory  of  this  feat  was  only  a  stimulant  to  the  prosecu 
tion  of  others.  But  science  now  began  to  lend  her  influence  and 
aid  to  my  longings.  One  part  of  my  academical  studies  was 
chemistry.  I  listened  to  the  lectures  of  the  Principal  with  a 
pleasurable  wonder,  which  I  can  not  describe.  The  best  por 
tions  of  the  course  were  the  evenings  set  apart  for  experiments. 
One  circumstance  tended  to  render  them  peculiarly  attractive. 
My  heart,  about  this  time,  became  touched  with  the  living  fer 
vors  of  the  tender  passion.  The  object  of  my  regard  was  a  lovely 
creature,  only  seventeen  years  of  age.  Sweet  Sophia  Howard ! 
She  is  one  whom  I  remember  as  a  perfect  beauty,  if  one  ever  lived. 
How  richly  the  golden  hair  disparted  on  her  calm  forehead,  and 
lay  in  silken  waves  upon  her  rosy  cheek  !  There  was  a  light  in 
her  clear,  hazel  eye,  that  used  to  fill  me  with  a  kind  of  dreamy 
transport,  which  no  time  can  annul. 

In  some  of  the  lectures,  the  lights  were  extinguished,  for  the 
purpose  of  showing  the  effects  of  phosphorus.  On  such  oc 
casions,  how  great  was  the  change  of  places  among  the  stu 
dents  !  Every  young  lover  hied  to  his  mistress'  side,  for  all  the 
refined  young  ladies  of  the  village  attended,  and  many  were  the 
kisses  exchanged  in  the  darkness,  then  !  With  my  Sophia  near 
me,  I  was  supremely  comfortable.  We  watched  the  marks  and 
letters  of  flame  as  they  played  on  the  wall,  and  heard  the  lecturer 
talking  in  his  obscurity,  '  but  our  hearts  were  otherwhere  !'  Ah, 
good  gracious  !  those  were  happy  days  !  But  I  rhapsodise. 

The  study  of  chemistry  interested  me  beyond  any  other.  It 
seems  so  supernatural,  in  many  respects,  to  the  half-initiated,  that 
it  is  very  difficult  to  believe  that  an  unearthly  agency  is  not  ex 
erted,  in  its  results  and  combinations.  It  always  reminded  me 
of  the  tales  of  wonder  and  enchantment,  and  the  diablerie  of 
Faust,  Monk  Lewis,  and  other  Satannic  intellects.  By  degrees, 


318  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

the  study  became  to  me  a  passion.  What  with  that,  and  love,  I 
was  well  nigh  distraught.  Finally,  after  a  good  deal  of  thought 
upon  the  subject,  and  a  careful  estimate  of  my  chances  of  pros 
perity  in  any  other  pursuit,  I  resolved  to  become  a  chemist  by 
profession. 

As  soon  as  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  I  came  to  the  city  to  con 
tinue  the  study.  I  pressed  forward  in  my  career  with  unabated 
ardor.  In  the  course  of  my  researches  on  the  subject  of  gases, 
I  encountered  some  histories  of  Aeronauts.  They  acted  upon 
my  imagination  as  a  spark  of  fire  would  on  a  nitrous  train  ;  they 
kindled  it  into  a  blaze.  With  what  enthusiasm  did  I  pore  over 
the  recorded  experiments  and  doubts  of  Cavallo  and  the  Mont- 
golfiers',  of  Charles,  and  d'Arlandes !  I  resolved  at  some  fu 
ture  time,  and  that  not  remote,  to  try  my  silken  sphere  in  the  sky, 
and  to  live,  in  fame,  with  those  bold  adventurers  of  Paris  and 
Avignon. 

This  era  of  my  life  was  one  of  unmingled  enjoyment.  My 
charming  Sophia  passed  her  winters  with  her  relations  in  town  ; 
and  our  evenings  were,  of  course,  mutually  shared.  In  her  so 
ciety,  music  and  beauty  warmed  me  into  rapture ;  and  when  the 
summer  called  her  and  her  gentle  cousins  of  the  city  to  her  rural 
home,  I  used  to  feel  like  a  hermit.  Then  my  thoughts  would 
revert  to  chemistry  with  increased  earnestness.  The  goodness 
of  my  father  enabled  me  to  surprise  my  friends  with  a  superb 
store,  and  I  conducted  it  with  brilliant  and  unexpected  success. 

Practical  chemistry  is  a  severe  calling,  and  I  was  only  a  su 
perintendent  of  my  establishment.  I  had  faithful  and  competent 
subordinates  for  all  the  details,  which  left  me  nearly  one  half  of 
my  time  to  spend  at  leisure,  with  men  of  science  and  letters. 
The  inspiration  thus  acquired,  all  tended  to  one  point,  my  ulti 
mate  ascension.  There  was  not  a  day  in  the  year,  in  which  the 
thought  of  it  was  absent  from  my  mind.  Occasional  notices  of 
ascensions  abroad,  which  met  my  eye  among  the  foreign  quota 
tions,  served  only  to  fan  the  flame. 

One  bright  morning  in  June,  as  I  was  passing  along  Maiden 
Lane,  I  saw  a  piece  of  light-colored  silk,  at  the  door  of  a  fashion 
able  shop.  I  stepped  up  to  examine  it.  The  quality  was  of 
uncommon  excellence.  It  was  light,  but  very  firm.  Here,. 
thought  I,  is  the  materiel  for  my  balloon.  I  entered,  asked  the 
price,  and  found  that  the  shop-keeper  had  several  pieces  of  pre 
cisely  the  same  quality.  I  purchased  them  at  once,  and  leaving 
my  address,  walked  home  as  if  on  air.  I  had  made  the  primary 
movement  in  my  enterprise,  and  I  felt  that  it  would  not  be  long, 
ere  I  should  cease  to  be  one  of  the  '  undistinguished  many.'  I 


LEAVES  FROM  AN  AERONAUT.         319 

was  determined  to  make  some  sensation  in  the  world ;  to  rise 
superior  to  that  large  number,  each  of  whom  is  only  famous  for 
counting  one  in  a  general  census ;  but  to  preserve  a  strict  incog 
nito  until  the  time  arrived,  when  I  should  blaze  upon  the  public 
like  a  stray  comet. 

My  intimacy  with  scientific  gentlemen  was  of  much  service  to 
me  ;  although  I  do  not  imagine  that  a  close  knowledge  of  men 
and  things  will  add  much  to  one's  self-confidence.  My  acquaint 
ance  with  the  science  by  which  !„  expected  to  rise,  was  by  no 
means  complete,  and  perhaps  my  limited  attainments  inspired  me 
with  vigor  to  trample  with  a  firm  and  resolute  step  upon  every 
obstacle  that  might  interpose  to  prevent  my  flight.  The  mystery 
of  the  aeronaut  was  of  no  very  remote  introduction  in  the  coun 
try  ;  and  though  I  had  witnessed  one  or  two  ascensions,  and  con 
versed  with  the  aeronauts,  as  to  the  details  of  their  efforts,  yet  I 
found  myself  unable  properly  to  comprehend  them.  They  were 
of  transatlantic  origin,  and  after  one  or  two  voyages  aloft,  gener 
ally  returned  whence  they  came,  each  bearing  with  him  the  mar 
vellous  aerostat,  that  he  had  brought  from  foreign  lands.  Books, 
therefore,  and  my  own  judgment,  supplied  my  deficiency  in  prac 
tical  knowledge,  and  my  soaring  resolution  daily  grew  stronger 
and  stronger. 

At  this  period,  I  surveyed  the  heavens  by  night  and  day,  with 
an  intensity  of  interest.  There  swelled  that  broad  blue  theatre, 
among  whose  cloudy  curtains  I  was  yet  to  rise ;  there,  were  the 
empires  of  the  imagination ;  from  thence  came  light,  enveloped 
in  heat;  and  there,  was  the  source  of  life.  There  the  sun  *  look 
ed  from  his  sole  dominion  like  a  God,'  sowing  the  earth  with  his 
vital  smile  ;  from  that  endless  vault  came  the  subtle,  invisible,  and 
mystic  fluid,  which  pervades  the  globe,  ubiquitous  in  its  princi 
ple,  resistless  in  its  power.  There,  the  tremulous  stars  sang  to 
gether  ;  there,  the  Thunderer  lifted  his  voice ;  there,  the  meteor 
streamed  its  horrid  hair ;  and  from  thence,  the  moon  poured  her 
religious  lustre  on  the  earth,  blending  her  rays  with  the  sweet  in 
fluences  of  Orion  and  the  Pleiades,  of  Arcturus  and  his  sons. 

I  never  prided  myself  much  on  my  weather-wisdom  ;  and  the 
atmospherical  phenomena  or  changes  of  the  seasons  seldom 
occupied  much  of  my  attention.  But  now,  as  I  meditated  an 
early  voyage,  I  began  to  compare  a  few  old  almanacs  together, 
to  ascertain  the  mildest  part  of  the  season.  Whether  the  com 
parison  was  accidental  or  not,  I  am  unable  to  tell ;  but  I  found 
that  the  early  days  of  September  had  been  for  many  years  pre 
vious,  remarkably  clear  and  calm.  Presuming  on  the  continu 
ance  of  such  weather,  I  fixed  upon  the  first  part  of  that  approach- 


320  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

ing  month  for  my  aerial  debut.  The  sequel  proved  that  my  ra 
tiocination  was  at  fault.  I  looked  for  a  day  such  as  we  some 
times  experience  after  the  fervors  of  the  solstice,  when  the  sky 
appears  palpable,  and  you  can  see  the  downy  beard  of  the  thistle, 
gradually  moving  through  its  depths,  as  if  empowered  to  make 
its  way,  fast  or  slow,  by  inherent  volition.  But  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  a  premature  equinox,  and  in  dry  weather  all  signs  fail. 

Not  a  week  now  passed,  without  finding  me  in  the  possession 
of  some  new  materials,  all  tending  to  the  ultimate  object.  My 
nights,  instead  of  sleep,  gave  me  visionary  slumbers,  fitful  pas 
sages  of  repose,  which  made  my  waking  hours  seem  like  the 
fragments  of  a  dream.  I  felt  like  one  rapt,  inspired.  I  shunned 
all  company,  I  neglected  my  affectionate  Sophia's  correspondence 
from  the  country.  In  fine,  I  was  half  demented,  perhaps  a  mon- 
olithiac,  a  fool  on  one  point.  But  there  was  method  in  my  mood. 
I  had  a  determinate  purpose  in  my  mind,  where  every  energy 
centered. 

About  a  month  before  the  time,  I  sent  a  confidential  notice  to 
an  editor  of  one  of  the  journals,  requesting  him  to  observe  in  his 
original  department,  that,  early  in  September,  a  young  American 
would  make  his  first  ascension  in  a  balloon  from  Castle  Garden, 
and  that  due  information  would  be  given  of  the  day  on  which  the 
event  would  take  place.  The  article  appeared,  and  went  the 
rounds.  I  immediately  sent  a  paper,  and  wrote  to  Sophia  Howard 
and  her  brother,  giving  her  the  intelligence  that  the  aeronaut  was 
a  friend  of  hers,  whom  we  both  knew,  and  requesting  the  brother 
to  accompany  the  family  to  the  city  in  the  steamboat,  on  the 
Saturday  evening  previous  to  the  ascension,  the  time  of  which  I 
promised  to  communicate  as  soon  as  definitely  known.  I  had 
the  satisfaction  of  receiving  a  compliance  with  my  request,  and  a 
thousand  questions  from  Sophia,  concerning  '  the  intrepid  young 
gentleman,  who  was  about  to  leave  the  world  in  so  singular  a 
manner.' 

I  kept  my  secret,  and  perfected  my  arrangements.  Long  be 
fore  the  day  selected  for  my  enterprise,  my  balloon  was  made, 
and  folded,  according  to  the  forms  I  had  seen ;  the  netting,  iron, 
oil  of  vitriol,  barometer,  vessels,  all  the  apparatus,  prepared ; 
even  the  ice  was  engaged,  with  which  the  conductors  were  to  be 
cooled.  I  had  proceeded  with  the  utmost  caution ;  and  the 
proximity  of  the  wished-for  yet  dreaded  time  occupied  almost 
every  thought.  Gas  and  love  divided  my  intellect  between  them. 
My  scientific  confederates  were  all  sworn  to  be  mum  about  my 
name  ;  the  newspapers  announced  the  day,  and  *  keen  the  won 
der  grew.' 


LEAVES  FROM  AN  AERONAUT.         321 

At  the  time  specified,  my  friends  came.  The  expected  voy 
age  was  then  a  town's  talk,  and  I  had  much  ado  to  keep  my 
counsel  from  Sophia.  An  evening  or  two  after  her  arrival,  on 
visiting  her  with  my  accustomed  punctuality,  I  found  her  beau 
tiful  eyes  filled  with  tears.  I  asked  the  cause.  She  handed  me 
one  of  the  evening  journals.  It  announced  my  name  as  that  of 
the  aeronaut  who  was  about  to  make  his  perilous  venture.  So 
phia  implored  me  to  say  that  it  was  erroneous,  and  thus  remove 
her  misery. 

For  a  moment  I  was  utterly  unmanned.  The  tears  of  a  lovely 
being,  who  had  never  before  met  me  but  with  a  smile,  and  whom 
I  adored  so  tenderly,  were  too  much  for  me.  I  hesitated  a  little  : 
but  Truth  was  my  counseller :  I  knew  that  some  of  my  confi 
dants  must  have  '  blabbed?  and  I  owned  that  the  statement  was 
veritable. 

I  will  not  describe  the  scene  that  ensued.  Had  not  my  unu 
sual  eloquence  succeeded  in  explaining  to  her  the  comparative 
safety  of  the  attempt,  and  in  soothing  her  fears,  I  would  have 
flung  a  thousand  balloons  to  the  wind,  rather  than  wound  that 
gentle  heart.  But  Sophia  Howard  had  a  yielding  spirit.  When 
she  found  that  my  whole  soul  was  bent  on  the  effort,  when  I 
showed  her  the  reputation  and  advantages  it  might  give  me,  she 
grew  calm  with  a  *  sweet  reluctant  delay,'  that  endeared  her  to 
me  more  than  ever. 

At  last  came  on  the  evening  previous  to  the  day.  As  I  walk 
ed  among  the  busy  throngs  of  Broadway,  heard  my  name  uttered 
by  hundreds,  and  caught  occasional  views  of  the  rich  scenery 
across  the  Hudson,  where  twilight  was  then  faintly  blushing,  I 
could  not  help  asking  myself,  '  Where  shall  I  be  at  this  time  to 
morrow  T  Perhaps,  a  lifeless  corse  in  the  ocean,  or  perchance 
dashed  upon  some  rocky  crag,  or  blasted  by  some  dreadful  ex 
plosion  !'  But  my  mind  was  made  up,  and  I  drave  the  forebod 
ings  from  my  brain.  I  spent  a  holy,  melancholy  evening  with  my 
beloved,  and  our  adieu  was  like  that  of  friends  who  part  to  meet 
no  more. 

That  night  I  could  not  sleep.  Perturbed  by  a  multitude  of 
thoughts,  I  tossed  upon  my  couch  in  restless  longings.  At  last, 
I  slumbered,  and  dreamed. 

Methought  I  embarked  in  my  balloon  to  cross  the  ocean.  I 
cut  the  ideal  cord,  and  set  forth  in  my  imaginary  car.  Day  after 
day,  to  my  fancy,  I  rode  on  the  posting  winds,  far  above  the 
long  green  swells  of  the  Atlantic.  At  last,  I  made  the  coast  of 
England,  and  sailed  among  the  clouds  to  London.  Here,  me- 
thought,  news  had  been  received  of  my  approach,  and  an  escort 

21 


322  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

of  several  pilot-balloons  came  out  to  meet  me.  I  found  a  com 
mittee  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament,  with  the  Lord  Mayor,  on 
the  broad,  flat-roof  of  St.  Paul's,  ready  for  my  reception.  They 
offered  me  the  hospitalities  of  the  city.  How  fantastic  is  a 
dream  !  I  declined  the  honor,  and  pushed  on  to  Windsor, 
There  I  stopped  for  a  moment,  fastened  my  balloon  to  the  ter 
race,  and  took  a  glass  of  wine  with  the  king,  who  I  thought  was 
walking  on  the  terrace,  in  his  robe  de  chambre,  and  eke  his  night 
cap.  He  gave  me  a  passport  to  France.  I  shook  his  royal 
hand,  borrowed  some  pigtail  tobacco  of  him,  and  sailed  away.  I 
reached  France  soon  after.  Passing  over  the  heights  of  Mont- 
martre,  I  looked  down  upon  the  capital.  I  seemed  to  know  the 
city  ;  and  when  I  arrived  over  the  Place  Vendome,  I  was  made 
to  look  up,  by  some  irresistible  monition;  and  lo !  my  balloon 
had  changed  to  the  semblance  of  a  horn  !  a  long,  bright  trumpet 
of  silk,  the  little  end  towards  the  earth,  and  from  it,  by  a  mere 
thread,  was  my  car  suspended !  All  at  once,  the  thread  parted*- 
I  went  down,  down,  in  a  way  that  one  can  only  sink  in  dreams. 
I  saw  my  head  strike  against  the  statue  of  Napoleon,  and  fall 
separate  from  my  body  to  the  earth.  I  observed  the  jabbering 
crowd  picking  up  my  limbs,  (these  are  sights  for  dreams  only !) 
and  then  I  awoke.  

THE  morning  sun  was  shining  in  my  window.  I  dressed  in 
stantly.  My  dream  seemed  to  indicate  that  I  should  at  any  rate 
have  an  extensive  sail,  though  the  close  omened  that  I  should 
come  out  at  last  from  the  little  end  of  the  horn.  *  Never  mind,' 
said  I,  *  that  last  part  was  dreamed  in  the  morning  ;  and  there  is 
an  adage,  that  *  morning  dreams  always  go  by  contraries.'  This 
satisfied  my  superstition,  and  I  took  my  slender  breakfast  in 
cheerfulness  and  hope. 

I  had  scarcely  finished  this  hasty  meal,  when  my  apartment 
was  entered  by  a  meagre-looking  gentleman,  who  seemed  ner 
vous  and  agitated.  I  inquired  his  pleasure.  He  answered  me 
with  a  marked  French  accent.  '  My  dear  Sir,'  said  he,  '  you  are 
not  acquainted  with  me,  but  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  come  and 
try  to  dissuade  you  from  your  voyage  this  day.  I  have  never 
seen  but  one  balloon  ascension,  and  God  forbid  that  I  should 
ever  see  another.  It  was  that  of  M.  Remain,  and  Pilatre  de 
Rozier,  in  '85.  I  saw  them  rise  from  the  shore  of  France,  to 
cross  to  the  English  side  ;  as  their  double  balloons  ascended 
among  the  clouds  over  the  waves,  I  saw  the  flames  burst  forth  in 
the  lower  globe ;  I  saw  the  fierce  blaze  flashing  aloft,  and  the 
daring  aeronauts  precipitated  from  on  high,  mangled  by  the  fiery 


LEAVES  FROM  AN  AERONAUT.         323 

gas,  and  swept  to  death  by  that  aerial  power  which  they  had 
fondly  hoped  would  give  them  fame  !  Horrid  remembrance  1 
My  dear  friend,  can  I  persuade  you  not  to  go  T 

I  was  touched  with  this  abrupt  evidence  of  friendship  ;  but  I 
argued  with  the  adviser,  that  important  discoveries  had  since 
been  made  in  the  science  ;  that  my  gas  would  be  cool,  and  no 
embers  be  placed  near  the  aerostat,  as  there  was  with  that  of  Ro- 
zier  and  Romain.  My  determination,  I  added,  was  inflexible. 
The  gentleman  smiled  reluctantly,  and  bowed  himself  out  as  sud 
denly  as  he  entered,  leaving  me  surprised  at  the  quickness  and 
singularity  of  the  interview. 

I  now  consulted  my  barometer.  It  had  risen  during  the  night, 
but  there  were  flying  clouds  in  the  sky,  and  they  drifted  along 
with  a  rapidity  which  betokened  a  strong  wind.  I  found,  how 
ever,  on  opening  my  window,  that  it  was  light  but  summer-like. 
The  barometer  could  not  be  doubted,  and  my  hopes  were  as 
sured. 

I  was  now  delayed  for  hours  with  men  from  the  amphitheatre 
at  the  garden,  wishing  my  directions.  I  gave  them  like  a  general 
commanding  his  legions.  One  I  ordered  to  the  sail-maker's,  for 
canvass  to  spread  the  balloon  on ;  one  to  the  cooper's,  for  extra 
casks  :  one  to  one  place,  one  to  another.  I  issued  my  ukase 
that  no  particle  of  iron,  or  any  sharp,  hard  substance  be  left  on 
the  ground  about  the  canvass  ;  that  the  policemen  should  be  on 
the  ground,  tickets  sent  to  editors,  and  arranged  every  thing  with 
a  promptitude  that  has  since  astonished  me.  I  then  retired  to 
my  room,  and  dressed  in  a  plain  suit  of  American  cloth,  for  the 
occasion,  had  my  chin  new  reaped  by  a  dainty  barber,  and  sallied 
into  the  street. 

It  was  now  about  twelve  o'clock.  I  called  for  a  moment  on 
the  Howards,  to  inform  them  that  one  of  the  best  seats  had  been 
reserved  for  their  use,  and  that  an  attendant  would  be  at  the  gate, 
to  conduct  them  to  it.  This,  to  me,  first  duty  arranged,  I  walk 
ed  slowly  down  Broadway  to  the  Garden.  As  general  a  turning 
of  heads  occurred  among  the  most  of  those  I  met,  as  if  I  had 
been  the  sea-serpent.  There  was  excitement  in  this.  I  felt  like 
a  monarch. 

I  found  the  garden  by  no  means  empty,  even  at  that  early  hour  f 
and  around  about  the  scene,  were  premature  groups  of  curious 
sailors,  country  urchins,  and  Fly-market  loafers,  looking  up  at 
the  flags,  and  other  popular  furniture,  that  fluttered  above.  I 
examined  every  thing  connected  with  the  apparatus  most  strictly. 
Minutes  seemed  hours.  At  length,  the  cannon,  booming  over 
the  bay,  and  startling  the  distant  shores  and  heights,  announced 


324  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

the  opening  of  the  gates,  and  the  commencement  of  the  process 
of  inflation.  Throngs  of  well-dressed  citizens,  ladies  and  gentle 
men,  began  to  arrive.  The  empty  benches  became  fewer  and 
fewer ;  and  there  was  a  bustle  around  me,  which  filled  me  with 
impatience.  My  natural  timidity  was  lost  in  the  consciousness 
that  my  preparations  were  perfect,  and  an  assurance  that  I  should 
perform  what  I  had  promised.  The  wind  had  lulled,  the  clouds 
dispersed  from  overhead,  though  a  few  bright-edged  ones  still  lay 
along  the  west. 

The  attendants  now  opened  the  carboys  of  oil  of  vitriol,  some 
of  which  they  poured  into  large  jars :  these  were  emptied  into 
capacious  hogsheads,  where  three  thousand  pounds  of  iron,  and 
some  thousand  gallons  of  water  had  already  been  placed.  The 
chemical  compound  was  complete ;  the  noise  proceeding  from 
the  casks,  proved  the  powerful  action  of  the  agitated  acid  on  the 
iron.  The  water  was  fast  decomposing,  the  gas  rushed  through 
the  tubes  to  the  condenser,  and  thence  poured  in  volumes  into 
the  balloon,  which  now  arose  from  the  canvass,  gradually  distend 
ing  into  a  globular  form,  and  quivering  like  a  thing  of  life,  in  im 
patient  bondage.  Finally,  it  was  permitted  to  rise  a  few  feet,  for 
the  proper  arrangement  of  the  delicate  cord-work,  by  which  it 
was  encompassed.  I  now  experienced  a  strong  feeling  of  pleas 
ure,  when  I  heard  the  loud  cheering  which  attended  the  letting 
off  of  the  little  pilot  balloon.  It  passed  to  the  east  of  the  city, 
and  describing  a  vast  semicircle  over  the  north  part  of  the  town, 
floated,  at  last,  away  to  the  west,  beyond  the  wind-mills  of  Jer 
sey  city,  toward  the  town  of  Newark.  There  was  a  kind  of 
pleasing  bewilderment  in  being  thus  the  focus  of  ten  thousand 
eyes,  in  the  bursts  of  national  music,  and  the  encouragement  of 
so  many  hearts.  I  felt  it  all.  It  surpassed  every  previous  ex 
perience  of  condensed  excitement. 

Only  twenty  minutes  now  remained  before  the  hour  of  ascen 
sion.  '  The  time  of  my  departure  was  at  hand,*  and  I  was 

*  ready  to  be  offered.'     Every  thing  requisite  had  been  placed  in 
my  fairy  gondola ;  my  pigeon,  the  poetry,  in  hand-bills,  for  the 
occasion  ;  the  tissue-paper,  flags,  ballast,  all.     Every  moment 
seemed  an  hour.     I  did  not  trust  myself  to  look  often  at  the  seat 
where  Sophia,  and  all  my  nearest  relations,  were  seated ;  for  I 
feared  that  they  might  disconcert  me.     Observing  a  broken  car 
boy  of  oil  of  vitriol  lying  carelessly  by  the  passage  through  which 
the  balloon  with  its  netting  had  been  brought,  I  ordered  it  instantly 
removed.     The  amphitheatre  was  now  filled ;  the  Battery  trees 

*  bore  men  ;'  the  bay  was  crowded  with  craft  of  all  sorts,  and 
every  eminence  in  the  neighborhood  was  clothed  with  clusters  of 
human  beings. 


LEAVES  FROM  AN  AERONAUT.         325 

My  gay  wicker-car  was  now  attached,  with  the  minutest  care, 
to  the  long  cords  that  depended  from  the  buoyant  globe  above. 
I  was  looking  at  my  watch,  observing  that  the  time  of  twenty  had 
dwindled  to  eight  minutes,  when  I  heard  the  cry  of  *  Fire  !'  I 
sprang  toward  the  aerostat,  as  if  a  bullet  had  perforated  my  heart. 
4  Where?'  said  I.  *  There,  in  the  balloon!'  was  the  answer. 
Looking  upward,  I  perceived  that  the  netting  had  become  en 
tangled  with  the  valve,  which  ever  and  anon  flew  open,  as  the 
wind  surged  against  the  balloon,  and  the  gas,  mixed  with  vapor, 
issued  from  the  aperture,  resembling  smoke.  The  netting  was 
soon  disengaged  ;  and  the  valve,  closed  and  held  by  its  stout 
springs,  remained  firm  in  its  place. 

My  hour  had  now  come,  and  I  entered  the  car.  With  a 
singular  taste,  the  band  struck  up  at  this  moment  the  melting 
air  of  '  Sweet  Home.'  It  almost  overcame  me.  A  thousand  as 
sociations  of  youth,  friends,  of  all  that  I  must  leave,  rushed  upon 
my  mind.  But  like  Dashall  in  the  play,  I  had  no  leisure  for 
sentiment.  A  buzz  ran  through  the  assemblage  ;  unnumbered 
hands  were  clapping,  unnumbered  hearts  beating  high ;  and  I 
was  the  cause.  Every  eye  was  upon  me.  There  was  pride  in 
the  thought. 

*  Let  go  !'  was  the  word.  The  cheers  redoubled,  handker 
chiefs  waved  from  many  a  fair  hand,  bright  faces  beamed  from 
every  window,  and  on  every  side.  My  last  look  was  toward 
Sophia.  She  was  pale,  and  her  lips  parted  *  like  monument  of 
Grecian  art.'  Her  white  fingers  touched  them,  as  I  cut  the 
cord.  One  dash  with  my  knife,  and  I  rose  aloft,  a  habitant  of  air. 

How  magnificent  was  the  sight  which  now  burst  upon  me ! 
How  sublime  were  my  sensations  !  I  waved  the  flag  of  my 
country ;  the  cheers  of  the  multitude  from  a  thousand  house-tops 
reached  me  on  the  breeze  ;  and  a  taste  of  the  rarer  atmosphere 
elevated  my  spirits  into  ecstacy.  The  city,  with  a  brilliant  sun 
shine  striking  the  spires  and  domes,  now  unfolded  to  view,  a 
sight  incomparably  beautiful.  My  gondola  went  easily  upward, 
clearing  the  depths  of  heaven,  like  a  vital  thing.  A  diagram 
placed  before  you,  on  the  table,  could  not  permit  you  to  trace 
more  definitely  than  I  now  could,  the  streets,  the  highways,  ba 
sins,  wharves,  and  squares  of  the  town.  The  theatres  and  public 
buildings,  I  recognised  from  their  location  near  parks  or  open 
grounds,  and  from  the  peculiarity  of  their  being  covered  with  va 
rious  metals,  as  well  as  slate,  or  tiles.  The  hum  of  the  city 
arose  to  my  ear,  as  from  a  vast  bee-hive ;  and  I  seemed  the 
monarch-bee,  directing  the  swarm.  I  heard  the  rattling  of  car 
riages,  the  hearty  yo-heave-o !  of  sailors  from  the  docks  that,  be- 


326  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

girt  with  spars,  hemmed  the  city  round  :  I  was  a  spectator  of  all, 
yet  aloof,  and  alone.  Increasing  stillness  attended  my  way; 
and  at  last  the  murmurs  of  earth  came  to  my  ear  like  the  last  vi 
brations  of  a  bell. 

My  car  tilted  and  trembled,  as  I  rose.  A  swift  wind  some 
times  gave  the  balloon  a  rotary  motion,  which  made  me  deathly 
sick  for  a  moment ;  but  strong  emotion  conquered  all  my  physi 
cal  ailings.  My  brain  ached  with  the  intensity  of  my  rapture. 
Human  sounds  had  fainted  from  my  ear.  I  was  in  the  abyss  of 
heaven,  and  alone  with  my  GOD.  I  could  tell  my  direction  by 
the  sun  on  my  left ;  and  as  his  rays  played  on  the  aerostat,  it 
seemed  only  a  bright  bubble,  wavering  in  the  sky,  and  I  a  sus 
pended  mote,  hung  by  chance  to  its  train.  Looking  below  me, 
the  distant  Sound  and  Long-Island  appeared  to  the  east ;  the  bay 
lay  to  the  south,  sprinkled  with  shipping ;  under  me  the  city, 
girded  with  bright  rivers  and  sparry  forests  ;  the  free  wind  was 
on  my  cheek  and  in  my  locks  ;  afar,  the  ocean  rolled  its  long  blue 
waves,  chequered  with  masses  of  shadow,  and  gushes  of  ruby 
sunlight ;  to  the  north  and  west  the  interminable  land,  variegated 
like  a  map,  dotted  with  purple,  and  green,  and  silver,  faded  to 
to  the  eye. 

The  atmosphere  which  I  now  breathed  seemed  to  dilate  my 
heart  at  every  breath.  I  uttered  some  audible  expression.  My 
voice  was  weaker  than  the  faintest  sound  of  a  reed.  There  was 
no  object  near  to  make  it  reverb  or  echo.  Though  rising  with 
incredible  swiftness,  I  had  nothing  to  convince  my  eye  that  I  was 
not  nearly  still.  The  weak  flap-flap-  flap,  of  the  cords  against  the 
balloon,  in  regular  motion,  as  the  trembling  aerostat,  moved  by 
its  subtle  contents,  continued  to  rise,  was  all  that  indicated  my 
tendency.  My  barometer  now  denoted  an  immense  height ;  and 
as  I  looked  upward  and  around,  the  concave  above  seemed  like 
a  mighty  waste  of  purple  air,  verging  to  blackness.  Below,  it 
was  lighter  ;  but  a  long,  lurid  bar  of  cloud  stretched  along  the 
west,  temporarily  excluding  the  sun.  The  shadows  rushed  afar 
into  the  void,  and  a  solemn,  Sabbath-twilight,  reigned  around.  I 
was  now  startled  at  a  fluttering  in  my  gondola.  It  was  my  com- 
pagnon  du  voyage,  the  carrier  pigeon.  I  had  forgotten  him  en 
tirely.  I  attached  a  string  to  his  neck,  with  a  label,  announcing 
my  height,  then  nearly  four  miles,  and  the  state  of  the  barometer. 
As  he  sat  on  the  side  of  the  car,  and  turned  his  tender  eyes  upon 
me  in  mute  supplication,  every  feather  shivering  with  apprehen 
sion,  I  felt  that  it  was  a  guilty  act  to  push  him  into  the  waste  be 
neath.  But  it  was  done  ;  he  attempted  to  rise,  but  I  out-sped 
him ;  he  then  fell  obliquely,  fluttering  and  moaning,  till  I  lost  him 
in  the  haze. 


LEAVES  FROM  AN  AERONAUT.         327 

My  greatest  altitude  had  not  yet  been  reached.  I  was  now 
five  miles  from  terra-firma.  I  began  to  breathe  with  difficulty. 
The  atmosphere  was  too  rare  for  safe  perspiration.  I  pulled  my 
valve-cord  to  descend.  It  refused  to  obey  my  hand.  For  a 
moment  I  was  horror-struck.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  If  I  as 
cended  much  higher,  the  balloon  would  explode.  I  threw  over 
some  tissue  paper  to  test  my  progress.  It  is  well  known  that 
this  will  rise  very  swiftly.  It  fell,  as  if  blown  downward,  by  a 
wind  from  the  zenith.  I  was  going  upward  like  an  arrow.  I  at 
tempted  to  pray,  but  my  parched  lips  could  not  move.  I  seized 
the  cord  again,  with  desperate  energy.  Blessed  heaven !  it 
moved.  I  threw  out  more  tissue.  It  rose  to  me  like  a  wing  of 
joy.  I  was  descending.  Though  far  from  sunset,  it  was  now 
dark  about  me,  except  a  track  of  blood-red  haze,  in  the  direction 
of  the  sun.  I  encountered  a  strong  current  of  wind  ;  mist  was 
about  me  ;  it  lay  like  dew  upon  my  coat.  At  last,  a  thick  bar 
of  vapor  being  past,  what  a  scene  was  disclosed !  A  storm  was 
sweeping  through  the  sky,  nearly  a  mile  beneath,  and  I  looked 
down  upon  an  ocean  of  rainbows,  rolling  in  indescribable  gran 
deur,  to  the  music  of  the  thunder-peal,  as  it  moaned  afar  and 
near,  on  the  coming  and  dying  wind.  A  frightened  eagle  had 
ascended  through  the  tempest,  and  sailed  for  minutes  by  my  side, 
looking  at  me  with  panting  weariness,  and  quivering  mandibles, 
but  with  a  dilated  eye,  whose  keen  iris  flashed  unsubdued. 
Proud  emblem  of  my  Country  !  As  he  fanned  me  with  his 
heavy  wings,  and  looked  with  a  human  intelligence  at  the  car, 
my  pulse  bounded  with  exulting  rapture.  Like  the  genius 
of  my  native  land,  he  had  risen  above  every  storm,  unfettered  and 
FREE  !  But  my  transports  were  soon  at  an  end.  He  attempted 
to  light  on  the  balloon,  and  my  heart  sunk  ;  I  feared  his  huge 
claws  would  tear  the  silk.  I  pulled  my  cord  ;  he  rose,  as  I  sank, 
and  the  blast  swept  him  from  my  view  in  a  moment.  A  flock  of 
wild  fowl,  beat  by  the  storm,  were  coursing  below,  on  bewildered 
pinions,  and  as  I  was  nearing  them,  I  knew  I  was  descending.  A 
singular  effect  was  now  produced  by  my  position.  It  was  a  double 
horizon,  one  formed  by  the  outer  edge  of  the  upper  cloud,  and 
the  other  by  the  angle  of  the  eye  to  the  extreme  strata  of  the 
storm  over  the  earth.  A  breaking  rift  now  admitted  the  sun. 
The  rainbows  tossed  and  gleamed  ;  chains  of  fleecy  rack,  shining 
in  prismatic  rays  of  gold,  and  purple,  and  emerald,  *  beautiful 
exceedingly,'  spread  on  every  hand.  Vast  curtains  of  cloud 
pavilioned  the  immensity,  brighter  than  celestial  roses,  or  *  jasper, 
bdellium,  or  the  ruby  stone,'  glittered  around ;  masses  of  mist 
were  lifted  on  high,  like  steps  of  living  fire,  more  radiant  than 


^^^  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

the  sun  himself,  when  his  glorious  noontide  culminates  from  the 
equator.  A  kind  of  aerial  Euroclydon  now  smote  my  ear ;  and 
three  of  the  cords  parted,  which  tilted  my  gondola  to  the  side, 
filling  me  with  terror.  I  caught  the  broken  cords  in  my  hand, 
but  could  not  tie  them.  They  had  been  dragged  over  the  broken 
carboy  of  oil  of  vitriol,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  and  had  rotted 
asunder. 

The  storm  below  was  now  rapidly  passing  away,  and  beneath 
its  waving  outline,  to  the  southeast,  I  saw  the  ocean.  Ships 
were  speeding  on  their  course,  and  their  bright  sails  melting  into 
distance  :  a  rainbow  hung  afar,  and  the  rolling  anthems  of  the 
Atlantic  came  like  celestial  hymnings  to  my  ear. 

Presently,  all  was  clear  below  me.  The  fresh  air  played 
around.  I  had  taken  a  noble  circuit,  and  my  last  view  was  better 
than  the  first.  I  was  far  over  the  bay,  *  afloating  sweetly  to  the 
west.'  The  city,  colored  by  the  last  blaze  of  day,  brightened 
remotely  to  the  view.  Below,  ships  were  hastening  to  and  fro 
through  the  narrows ;  and  the  far  country  lay  smiling  like  an 
Eden.  Bright  rivers  ran  like  ribands  of  gold  and  silver,  till  they 
were  lost  in  the  vast  inland,  stretching  beyond  the  view ;  the 
gilded  mountains  were  flinging  their  purple  shadows  over  many  a 
vale  ;  bays  were  blushing  to  the  farewell  day-beams ;  and  now  I 
was  passing  over  a  green  island.  I  sailed  to  the  main  land ; 
saw  the  tall  old  trees  waving  to  the  evening  breeze ;  heard  the 
rural  lowing  of  herds;  heard  the  welcome  sound  of  human 
voices;  and  finally,  sweeping  over  forest  tops  and  embowered 
villages,  at  last  descended  with  the  sun,  among  a  kind-hearted; 
surprised,  and  hospitable  community,  in  as  pretty  a  town  as  one 
could  desire  to  see,  '  safe  and  well.' 


IF  I  have  told  too  long  a  yarn  for  so  short  a  voyage,  I  crave 
the  reader's  mercy.  My  feat  has  not  diminished  the  number  of 
my  friends,  and  nothing  could  increase  Sophia  Howard's  love. 
She  is  now  mine  ;  and  when  she  wishes  to  amuse  our  little  So 
phia,  as  some  childish  casualty  bids  her  weep,  she  takes  her  on 
her  knee,  and  tells  her  *  about  Pa's  voyage  in  the  sky,'  until, 

*  Throned  on  her  mother's  lap,  she  dries  each  tear, 
As  the  sweet  legend  falls  upon  her  ear.' 


THE    STONE-FLINGER    OF    CAMPEACHY.        329 

THE  STONE -F  LINGER  OF  CAMPEACHY. 

(EL    PEDRERO   CAMPECHANO.) 

WHOEVER  has  been  at  Campeachy  within  the  last  twenty-five 
years,  has  probably  seen,  and  must  remember,  a  fellow  of  curious 
look  and  gait,  wandering  to  and  fro  through  the  streets  of  the 
city.  His  nether  garments  have  never  been  considered  remark 
able  for  their  cleanliness  or  beauty  ;  his  tattered  sombrero  de 
yaja  hangs  ever  slouchingly  over  his  cunning  and  restless  eyes  ; 
and  he  is  evermore  to  be  seen  poking  his  intrusive  nose  into 
other  people's  business  ;  not  unblushingly ,  it  is  true,  for  the 
member  of  which  I  speak  has  always  glowed  and  beamed  as  did 
the  *  maintained  salamander'  of  Bardolph,  which  Falstaff  used  a& 
a  sort  of  lantern,  to  light  him  about  from  tavern  to  tavern  ;  from 
the  Boar's  Head,  and  its  dependencies,  to  all  the  adjacent  tap 
rooms,  near  and  far,  in  London.  I  say  most  if  not  all  people 
who  have  seen  Campeachy,  will  remember  the  nondescript  of 
whom  I  speak  —  El  Pcdrero  Campechano,  or  the  Stone-flinger^ 
of  that  ilk.  He  is  a  well-educated  and  accomplished  loafer,  the 
very  head  of  his  tribe,  having  been  brought  up  at  the  feet  of 
loafers  from  childhood.  No  adventure  was  ever  too  arduous  for 
his  undertaking.  He  would  pick  a  pocket,  or  thresh  a  friend's 
enemy,  for  the  same  quid  pro  quo,  and  with  equal  good  will. 
He  was  eternally  busy  in  the  day  time,  about  nothing ;  for  the 
moonlight  evenings  and  the  twilight  hours  were  his  only  seasons 
of  pecuniary  harvest.  His  eye  was  an  unerring,  unerratic  orb, 
in  its  wildest  and  most  maudlin  rollings ;  and  for  hire  or  from 
caprice,  he  would  take  a  stone  in  his  right  hand  and  send  it  to 
the  distance  of  a  quarter-mile  with  arithmetical  precision.  He 
could  single  out  a  man  from  a  crowd,  among  thousands,  and  con 
sign  him  to  oblivion,  without  mistake  or  fear.  In  daylight,  to- 
see  him,  you  would  think  him  the  busiest  man  alive.  He  was 
always  to  be  observed  running  about  the  long  wharf  of  the  town, 
with  a  memorandum-book  and  pencil  in  his  hand,  taking  notes 
of  bales  and  boxes,  as  if  he  were  the  most  anxious  merchant  in 
the  place,  and  had  immense  consignments  in  his  charge.  Yet 
he  had  not  a  copper,  of  any  kind,  unless  it  were  some  gratuity 
for  his  scoundrel  contests.  No  one  ever  understood  better  the 
science  of  projectiles,  or  loved  better  the  bottle  and  the  glass. 
Hence  he  inherited,  by  positive  merit  and  common  consent,  the 
soubriquet  of  Pepe  Naranjo,  or  Pepe  Botclla,  in  which  he  re 
joiced. 


330  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

In  one  of  the  drunken  scrapes  of  Pepe  Botella,  he  had  the 
misfortune  to  have  his  left  side  kicked  into  a  palsy  by  an  athletic 
fellow  with  whom  he  was  contending.  He  never  but  partially 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  this  accident ;  and  while  he  passed 
along  the  street,  the  contrast  between  his  sinister  and  dextral 
members  was  particularly  striking  ;  one  side  being  tottering  and 
rickety,  the  other  strong  and  lusty.  The  strength  of  the  palsied 
portion  of  his  body  seemed  only  to  have  united  itself  with  the 
hearty  department,  greatly  adding  to  the  force  thereof.  The 
offender,  however,  who  produced  this  disaster,  had  reason  to  rue 
the  day  when  he  used  his  foot  so  discourteously.  He  stood  in 
daily  fear  of  his  life  ;  and  was  at  last  found  one  moonlight  evening, 
prostrate  and  dead  in  the  street.  A  large  stone  lay  near  him, 
covered  with  hair  and  clotted  blood  ;  his  head  was  indented 
with  a  hideous  wound,  and  the  place  where  he  lay,  stained  with 
the  vital  current.  No  one  was  seen  in  the  neighborhood  during 
the  evening ;  no  words  of  strife  were  heard ;  and  the  whole 
event  was  concealed  in  mystery.  El  Pedrcro  was  observed  to 
look  very  knowingly  and  satisfied,  when  told  of  the  occurrence, 
and  was  even  suspected  of  the  act ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  pro 
duce  any  satisfactory  proof  against  him. 

The  reputation  of  Pepe  as  a  stone-flinger  at  last  became  fully 
established.  He  was  even  employed  sometimes  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  others,  which  he  would  do  for  a  very  small  '  conside 
ration.'  A  glass  of  spiritous  fluid  would  generally  -be  deemed 
by  him  a  sufficient  guerdon  for  almost  any  enterprise. 


THERE  lived  in  Campeachy  a  licentious  priest,  named  Juan 
de  Raduan,  who  had  become  exceedingly  hateful  to  many  of  the 
young  men  of  the  city,  for  his  libertine  propensities.  Nothing 
certain,  however,  could  be  adduced  against  him.  Vague  suspi 
cions  and  rumors  alone  were  afloat  respecting  his  conduct,  and 
these  at  last  gradually  died  away.  The  station  of  the  Padre; 
the  holy  office  he  professed  and  filled,  joined  to  the  great  rever 
ence  of  the  people  for  the  priesthood ;  all  served  to  keep  him 
secure,  even  if  guilty,  and  to  appear  as  it  were  in  apotheosis,  if 
innocent.  The  murmurs  of  suspicion  being  quelled,  the  holy 
villain  sought  occasion,  at  an  evening  confessional,  to  pour  into 
the  ear  of  a  lovely  damsel,  one  Isabella  de  Leon,  the  daughter 
of  a  princely  house,  the  enticing  accents  and  proposals  of  the 
basest  passion.  The  affrighted  girl  fled  from  his  presence  in  dis 
gust,  communicated  the  secret  to  her  brother,  and  besought  him, 
nay  required  of  him,  under  the  most  solemn  injunctions,  that  the 


THE    STONE-FLI  NGER   OF    CAMPEACHY.       331 

Circumstance  should  be  communicated  to  no  one  living.  The 
brother  bit  his  pale  lip,  and  swore  obedience. 

The  Semana  Santa,  or  holy  week,  was  near.  At  last  it  ar 
rived.  During  this  season,  great  solemnity  prevails  through  the 
town;  plaintive  tones  roll  from  the  aisles  and  belfries  of  the 
cathedrals  ;  the  penitent  wail  in  the  streets,  and  count  their  beads 
at  every  turn.  Preaching  is  *  done'  in  the  public  places  ;  and 
the  clergy  are  as  busy  in  their  vocation,  as  the  faculty  of  a  col 
lege  previous  to  commencement. 

One  evening,  in  early  twilight,  the  Padre  Raduan  took  his 
station  in  an  out-door  pulpit,  at  the  termination  of  the  Barrio  de 
Guadaloupe,  and  La  Punta  de  Diamanta,  streets  of  the  city 
which  form  the  two  long  angles  of  a  triangle.  The  area  in  front 
of  the  pulpit  was  occupied  by  a  tumultuous  sea  of  people,  bow 
ing  and  kneeling  in  penitence  and  prayer.  The  preliminary  ser 
vices  were  over :  the  vesper  incense  had  ascended,  the  ave  Maria 
had  ceased,  and  the  Padre  began  his  discourse. 

While  this  scene  was  passing,  the  traveller  might  have  noted, 
in  a  green  lane  near  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a  tall  youth,  hold 
ing  low  and  anxious  converse  in  the  fading  light  with  El  Pedrero, 
the  Stone-flinger.  It  was  young  de  Leon. 

i  He  is  a  precious  villain,'  said  the  latter,  e  that  wretched  Padre, 
and  he  must  not  live.  He  a  Priest !  By  the  Holy  Virgin, 
were  it  not  for  an  oath,  I  would  pierce  his  surplice  with  my  own 
stiletto  !  Now,  Pepe,  can  I  engage  you  to  make  his  forehead 
and  a  stone  acquainted?' 

'  Si  SenorJ  replied  Botella ;  '  but  for  what  pay  ?  I  am  no 
hireling  murderer,  Senor  ;  and  I  can  not  perform  this  heavy  job 
for  a  common  reward.  I  must  have  my  flask  filled  daily  with 
the  best  liquor  in  your  wine  vault,  for  six  months  to  come  ;  and 
I  want  also  some  money  for  my  present  necessities.  What  will 
you  give  ¥ 

1  Now,  a  doblon  de  a  una,  and  when  your  deed  is  done,  ten 
more.' 

El  Pedrero  knew  the  potential  value  of  gold,  that  slave  of  the 
dark  and  dirty  mine.  In  this  he  but  imitated  mankind  in  the 
mass,  from  Indus  to  the  Pole.  Where,  and  over  whom  does  it 
not  hold  sway?  '  Gold,  of  all  other,'  saith  the  quaint  Democritus 
his  pen,  '  is  a  most  delitious  objecte  ;  a  sweet  light,  a  goodly  lus 
tre  it  hath  ;  gratius  auram  quam  solem  intuemur,  saith  Austin, 
and  we  rather  see  it  than  the  sun.  Sweet  and  pleasant  in  get 
ting,  in  keeping,  it  seasons  all  our  labors ;  intolerable  pains  we 
take  for  it ;  base  employment,  endure  bitter  flouts  and  taunts, 
long  journeys,  heavy  burdens  ;  all  are  made  light  and  easy  by 


332  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

this  hope  of  gain.  The  sight  of  gold  refresheth  our  spirits,  and 
ravisheth  our  hearts,  as  the  Babylonian  garment  and  golden 
wedge  did  Achan  in  the  camp  ;  the  very  sight  and  hearing  sets 
on  fire  his  soul  with  desire  of  it.  It  will  make  a  man  run  to  the 
Antipodes,  or  tarry  at  home  and  turn  parasite,  lye,  flatter,  pros 
titute  himself,  swear  and  bear  false  witness  ;  he  will  venture  his 
body,  kill  a  king,  murther  his  father,  and  damn  his  soul  to  come 
at  it.'  To  the  latter  extreme,  or  near  it,  had  El  Pedrero  been 
roused  by  the  single  doblon  de  a  una  of  de  Leon. 

Slowly  and  stealthily  the  Stone-flinger  and  his  employer  made 
their  way  toward  the  Barrio  de  Guadaloupe.  As  they  neared 
the  great  area  by  the  Punta  de  Diamanta,  they  perceived  that  the 
evening  torches  and  flambeaux  had  been  lighted,  and  were  shed 
ding  their  fitful  rays  over  the  vast  multitude.  Tall  wax  candles 
by  the  pulpit  enabled  the  many  thousands  around  to  see  with 
perfect  distinctness  the  splendid  robes  of  the  Padre  Raduan. 
He  was  preaching  with  a  drawling  coldness;  and  evidently  took 
more  pains  >to  gesture  gracefully,  and  to  see  who  of  his  female 
friends  were  among  the  assemblage,  than  to  deliver  the  testimony 
of  a  man  of  GOD. 

On  the  very  outskirts  of  the  multitude,  at  the  distance  of  six 
or  seven  hundred  yards  from  the  pulpit  and  priest,  stood  Eli 
Pedrero  and  his  master  for  the  time. 

'  Can  you  see  his  eye,  Senor?'  said  the  Stone-flinger,  in  a  low 
voice. 

'  No,'  replied  de  Leon  :  *  the  rays  of  the  candles  dazzle  me/ 

*  It  is  no  matter,'  added  Pepe :  *  I  can  see  his  face.      That 
will  do.     Stand  back,  Senor,  and  tell  me  where  to  strike  him.' 

*  In  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  between  the  temples ;  dash 
out  his  brains,  if  you  can  ;  the  unrighteous  wretch !'  responded 
de  Leon. 

*  Stop  a  moment,'  muttered  Pedrero. 

This  moment  was  spent  in  preparation.  He  poised  the  stone 
in  his  right  hand,  thrust  forward  his  right  leg,  with  a  tragedian 
attitude,  and  lifting  his  hand,  like  a  dying  gladiator  in  his  last 
clutch  toward  his  victim,  prepared  to  fling  the  stone,  now  raised 
uprightly  in  his  dexter  hand. 

The  priest  had  warmed  a  little  in  his  discourse,  and  in  some 
ejaculation  to  Heaven  had  lifted  his  hand. 

* Now's  the  time!'  said  de  Leon. 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  El  Pedrero  lifted  his  hand  yet 
higher  ;  a  slight  whiz  !  hummed  over  the  heads  of  the  multitude ; 
and  the  Padre  dropped  down  in  his  place,  the  blood  streaming 
from  his  forehead,  and  the  air  resounding  with  the  lamentations 
and  groans  of  the  assemblage. 


THE    STONE-FLINGER    OF    CAMPEACHY.      333 

Hundreds  rushed  to  the  pulpit.  The  Padre  Raduan  had  fallen 
by  the  hand  of  some  vile  assassin.  The  uproar  was  dreadful. 
Men  shouted,  women  shrieked  and  fainted  ;  emissaries  were  de 
spatched  with  the  news  of  the  Padre's  death,  (for  he  had  expired 
in  his  pulpit,)  to  the  different  churches  of  the  city.  All  was 
confusion.  Ten  minutes  had  not  elapsed,  when  the  bells  of  San 
Jose,  San  Francisquito,  San  Juan  de  Dios,  and  the  old  Cathe 
dral  of  San  Francisco,  poured  out  upon  the  evening  air  their 
full-volumed  descommunion-dirge  against  the  dire  offender,  the 
Priest-slayer,  the  Unknown  Man  of  Blood. 

All  was  of  no  avail.  The  shouting  multitudes,  as  they  bore 
away  the  dead  body  of  the  Padre,  knew  not  of  his  murderer, 
nor  was  he  ever  identified.  El  Pedrero  escaped,  scot  free.  Is 
abella  de  Leon  was  satisfied,  and  her  brother  avenged. 

Time  would  fail,  should  the  writer  of  this  hurried  sketch  at 
tempt  to  relate  all  the  adventures  of  El  Pedrero.  He  has 
wrought  *  twenty  mortal  murders'  on  as  many  crowns.  Two 
priests  are  among  the  victims  of  his  personal  avarice,  or  hired 
enmity.  In  all  his  adventures,  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to 
identify  him.  Testimony  has  been  found  useless  against  him. 
With  an  omnipresent  alibi,  he  has  ever  eluded  the  law ;  and  still 
lives,  to  kill  and  to  escape. 

His  last  act  was  perpetrated  at  the  corner  of  the  Castle  San 
Pedro,  (outside  the  walls  of  the  city  of  Campeachy,)  which  di 
vides  the  district  of  Santa  Anna  and  Guadaloupe.  He  drew  a 
stone  from  his  doublet,  and  at  the  length  of  seven  hundred  yards 
smote  a  priest  on  the  breast,  who  is,  in  consequence,  afflicted  with 
the  asthma  to  this  day.  The  secret  of  his  power  is  known  to 
few,  but  his  person  is  familiar  with  every  Campechean.  He 
4  bears  a  charmed  life,'  beyond  the  limits  of  the  laws  ;  for  such 
is  the  incredible  distance  to  which  he  can  project  a  missile,  that 
it  is  a  matter  of  impossibility  to  procure  evidence  against  him. 
His  hand,  or  his  employer's  eye,  can  be  only  his  witness.  The 
suspected  terror  of  all,  yet  the  accused  of  none,  he  sustains  him 
self  upon  the  fears  of  others.  His  interested  friends  are  numer 
ous  ;  his  employers  the  same ;  and  between  them  all,  the  Stone- 
flinger  lives,  of  late  years,  more  like  a  prince,  than  the  loafer 
that  he  is.  Wo  to  the  head  of  that  citizen  who  refuses  him  a 
glass,  call  for  it  when  he  will !  His  laws  are  Draconian,  written 
in  blood ;  and  like  that  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  their  code  is 
unalterable. 


334  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 


THE    IDEAL. 

4  OH,  Spirit-Land  ! — thou  land  of  Dreams  ! 
A  world  thou  art,  of  mysterious  gleams ; 
Like  a  wizard's  magic-glass  thou  art, 
Where  the  wavy  shadows  float  by,  and  part. 
Visions  of  aspects,  now  loved,  now  strange, 
Glimmering  and  mingling  in  ceaseless  change. 
Thou  art  like  the  depths  where  the  seas  have  birth, 
Rich  with  the  wealth  that  is  lost  from  earth : 
All  the  bright  flowers  of  our  days  gone  by, 
And  buried  gems,  in  thy  bosom  lie.' 

I  AM  a  lover  of  the  ideal.  I  bow  to  those  enchantments  of 
the  imagination,  which  come  we  know  not  whence  or  wherefore, 
to  awaken  a  few  evanescent  throbs  of  pleasure  in  the  heart,  and 
to  shed  a  few  gushes  of  sunshine  around  the  common  walks  of 
this  working-day  world.  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  guid 
ance  of  my  dreaming  moods,  and  to  say,  *  Halloo,  my  fancy, 
whither  wilt  thou  go  V  I  deem  that  the  great  charm  of  existence 
lies,  not  in  wailing  because  of  the  stern  realities  that  we  may  not 
shun,  but  in  seeking  those  bright  lapses  in  the  stream  of  time, 
illusive  though  they  be,  which  sparkle  into  the  soul  with  their  ra 
diance,  and  cause  every  nerve  to  thrill  with  momentary  enthusi 
asm.  As  sorrow  sometimes  rolls  its  unbidden  blight  over  the 
spirit,  so  does  pleasure  there  pour  its  lustre ;  and  of  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  can  we  rightly  discern  the  cause,  commence 
ment,  or  end.  How  often  will  a  cluster  of  hopes,  gathering 
thickly  in  the  mind,  clothed  in  hues  of  heaven,  warm  the  bosom 
into  transports  which  have  no  definite  origin,  and  can  be  traced 
to  none  ;  which  fade  by  far  too  soon,  and  yet  grow  lovelier 
while  they  fade  ? 

The  shocks  which  our  imaginary  world  sustains;  the  earth 
quakes  which  devastate  its  glorious  demesnes,  and  shake  to 
nothingness  its  thousand  brilliant  creations,  are  too  frequent  in 
manhood  to  render  the  influence  of  the  Ideal  abiding.  Its  mag 
nificent  pictures  melt  beneath  the  noontide  of  experience.  We 
know  what  we  have  been  ;  we  see  what  we  are  ;  and,  contrasting 
the  raptures  of  the  past  with  the  faint  visions  of  the  present,  are 
led  to  feel,  and  deeply  too,  that  the  *  golden  exhalations  of  our 
dawn'  were  too  beautiful  for  perpetuity.  Some  rude  lesson  from 
men  diminishes  our  rich  amount  of  romance.  Coldness,  deceit, 
the  changes  and  forgetfulness  of  friendships  that  we  deemed  al 
most  indestructible,  admonish  us  with  a  voice  stern  and  unrelent- 


THE    IDEAL.  335 

ing,  that  the  radiance  of  ideality  is  limited  to  a  narrow  compass 
in  our  being,  and  that  we  soon  recede  from  that  shore, 

'  Where  every  scene  is  pleasant  to  the  view, 
And  every  rapture  of  the  heart  is  new  ; 
Where  on  the  land  and  wave  a  light  is  thrown, 
Which  to  the  morn  of  life  alone  is  known ;' 

and  that,  whether  we  will  or  no,  those  enchantments  are  eluding 
our  search,  and  those  iris  hues  of  delight  rapidly  *  evanishing 
amid  the  storm.' 

It  is  with  the  mind  as  with  the  sky ;  continued  brightness 
would  soon  be  wearisome.  Like  Macbeth,  I  have  often  been 
*  a-weary  of  the  sun.'  1  like  those  little  passages  of  life  which 
break  the  self-deception  of  the  soul,  and  lead  me  to  contemplate 
things  as  they  are.  This  liking,  too,  is  by  no  means  incompati 
ble  with  a  passion  for  the  ideal,  but  rather  identical  with  it.  One 
may  give  the  reins  to  fancy,  and  journeying  in  thought  from 
heaven  to  earth  and  from  earth  to  heaven,  may  enjoy  the  transit 
without  supposing  it  reality.  This  is,  in  my  view,  the  acme  of 
day-dreaming.  We  are  prepared  to  wake  with  new  vigor  from 
the  illusive  reverie,  fortified  for  the  conflicts  of  the  world  ;  for 
we  know  that  we  can  sometimes  shake  off  the  latter,  and  in  the 
twilights  of  spring  or  summer,  or  during  the  golden  reign  of 
autumn,  command  the  former  at  our  will.  It  is  by  the  cultiva 
tion  of  this  spirit  that  the  poet,  the  novelist,  and  the  painter,  have 
depicted  their  best  conceptions.  Shutting  out  the  world  for  the 
nonce,  yet  retaining  a  sense  of  its  continuance  ;  amid  the  urbane 
resumptions  of  cigarillos,  or  pipe,  or  over-generous  cordial,  they 
luxuriate  and  dream ;  the  air,  the  light,  the  view  from  an  open 
window  of  some  pleasant  landscape,  minister  to  their  quietude : 
and  thus,  abstracted  in  meditation,  they  roll  up  the  shadowy  cur 
tains  of  Reality,  and  spread  before  their  mental  gaze  an  El  Do 
rado  and  an  Eden. 

Somebody  —  I  believe  it  is  Dr.  Johnson  —  pronounces  books 
to  be  dull  friends.  They  may  be  so  ;  but  they  are  glorious 
companions.  They  can  not  lend  one  money,  but  they  can  en 
rich  his  mind  with  incorruptible  and  unalienable  affluence. 
They  can  confer  in  gorgeous  profusion  the  vast  estates  of  ide 
ality  —  the  dominions  and  principalities  of  thought.  And  while 
they  impart  an  enjoyment  in  all  respects  equal  to  worldly  riches, 
they  inculcate  no  sordid  selfishness ;  they  never  contract  the 
heart ;  and  they  leave  its  genial  avenues  unclogged  by  envy ; 
unpolluted  by  pride ;  for  knowledge  ever  humbles  its  votaries, 
even  while  it  exalts  them. 

But  there  are  some  grievous  disappointments  to  which  imagi- 


336  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

nation  is  subject ;  namely,  the  changes  that  happen  inevitably  to 
the  romantic  fancies  derived  from  human  annals,  and  which  form 
the  ideal  of  history.  We  read  of  mighty  conquerors  and  states 
men,  who  have  made  rivers  run  with  blood,  or  thrilled  senates 
with  resistless  eloquence  :  we  pore  over  the  records  of  their  lives 
by  some  partial  contemporary,  until  we  deem  them  demi-gods. 
We  wish  that  we  had  lived  in  their  day,  and  heard  the  rolling  of 
their  chariot  wheels,  or  the  musical  thunder  of  their  periods. 
Anon,  we  meet  with  authentic  accounts  of  their  private  foibles, 
their  inglorious  passions,  their  petty  iniquities,  until  they  diminish 
in  our  eyes  to  the  mere  playthings  of  small  impulses,  the  ignoble 
puppets  of  Whim.  We  forget  Cicero  the  orator,  and  find  him 
the  puff-seeker  of  a  friend,  soliciting  the  hyperbole  of  praise  in 
an  extravagant  biography,  and  hinting  at  its  reward.  We  see 
monarchs  bribing  historians  to  give  fair  colors  to  their  fame,  or 
posthumously  shining  in  the  doubtful  authorship  of  an  Ikon  Bas- 
ilike. 

I  have  been  marvellously  shocked  at  the  variations  which  have 
passed  over  my  imagination  in  reference  to  the  great  characters 
of  history.  The  trusty  annalists  who  have  dwelt  more  on  their 
private  than  their  public  course,  have  almost  destroyed  my 
original  portraits  ;  and  although  I  began  them  fancifully  '  in  large,' 
they  have  left  them  '  in  little.'  From  the  heroes  and  heroines  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  down  to  the  queens,  ladies,  kings,  princes, 
and  knights  of  European  dominions,  there  has  passed  away  the 
coleur  de  rose  with  which  my  fancy  first  invested  them.  They 
have  come  to  appear  like  common  people  to  me,  and  the  great 
ness  they  once  wore  to  my  spiritual  eye,  has  gone  like  the  pa 
geant  of  a  vision.  I  can  not  cite  many  instances  here,  but  they 
are  as  numerous  as  the  leaves  of  history. 

Among  those  great  personages  of  historic  fame,  who  have 
swayed  monarchies  by  their  nod,  or  been  closely  allied  to  regnant 
majesty,  I  look  with  the  greatest  interest  upon  those  whose  tastes 
and  judgment  have  connected  them  with  the  success  of  genius 
and  literature.  I  should  like  to  have  had  a  peep  at  that  old 
Tuscanian  Macaenas,  and  witnessed  the  pleasures  and  the  affluence 
that  he  imparted  to  the  gifted  spirits  by  whom  he  was  surround 
ed  ;  making  the  sweet  Mantuan  to  'possess  himself  in  much 
quietness,'  and  brightening  the  Sabine  estate  before  the  quick  eye 
of  Horace,  until  that  satirist  felt  almost  ready  to  forswear  his 
haughty  nil  admirari.  I  should  delight  to  have  met  them  all 
together  over  a  glass  of  that  ancient  and  mellow  Falernian,  which 
Horace  kept  so  long  in  his  cellar,  and  felt  upon  my  lips  those 
gouts  of  an  inspiration  that  used  to  find  its  way  so  often  into 


THE    IDEAL.  337 

I 

^deathless  verse.  But  alas  !  had  I  known  them,  I  should  doubt 
less  have  witnessed  many  a  vulgar  scene  ;  many  tableaux  vivants 
of  maudlin  revellers,  reposing  under  tables,  quite  overdone ;  and 
been  haunted  to  my  grave  with  an  oft-recurring  vision  of  broken 
goblets,  among  lost  streams  of  wine,  rolling  over  the  flooded 
board,  and  wasting  upon  unmindful  nostrils  the  odor  of  delicate 
spices. 

To  those  monarchical  friends  of  talent,  who  have  shone  as 
the  patronizing  beautifiers  of  our  vernacular  tongue,  I  have  al 
ways  looked  in  a  kind  of  misty  admiration.  How  have  I  filled 
my  fancy  with  pictures  of  Elizabeth,  the  rewarder  of  merit,  the 
learned  lady,  the  favorite  of  the  gentle  Sidney,  the  friend  of 
Shakspeare  ;  and  beyond  all,  according  to  some  loyal  chroniclers, 
the  possessor  of  that  best  religion  *  which  triumpheth  upon  pride, 
and  sits  on  the  neck  of  ambition,  humbly  pursuing  that  infallible 
perpetuity  unto  which  all  others  must  diminish  their  diameters, 
and  be  poorly  seen  in  angles  of  contingency.'  I  have  painted 
her  in  my  thought  as  a  tall  majestic  woman,  with  an  eye  which 
warmed,  while  it  awed  the  heart,  and  whose  glance,  pleasing, 
and  commanding  homage,  filled  her  court  with  reflected  sunshine  ; 
her  person  stately  as  Juno,  and  marked  by  the  befitting  sweetness 
of  a  gracious  queen.  I  have  almost  doated  on  what  I  supposed 
must  have  been  about  her  smile.  But  like  my  fancy-sketch  of 
the  great  Russian  Empress  Catharine,  the  partial  hues  have  van 
ished  before  the  rays  of  truth,  and  the  bright  lineaments  have 
gone.  I  have  fallen  upon  Paul  Hentzner's  '  Journey  thoroughe 
Englande,'  in  the  year  of  grace  M.D.XC.  vni. ;  and  ah,  what 
havoc  hath  he  made !  Touching  Elizabeth  and  her  arrange 
ments,  he  speaketh  thus  :  '  Her  presence  chamber  was  strewn 
with  hay,  and  therein  were  present  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
Bishop  of  London,  and  so  ;  first  went  gentlemen,  barons,  carles, 
knights,  all  richly  dressed  and  bareheaded  ;  next  wended  the 
chauncellour,  with  seals  in  a  silk  purse  between  two,  one  of 
which  carried  the  royal  sceptre,  the  other  ye  sworde  of  State,  in 
a  red  scabbard,  covered  with  fleurs  de  lis,  and  pointed  upward. 
Next  came  the  Queen  ;  *  *  her  face  long  and  wrinkled,  her  eyen 
small,  but  black  and  pleasaunt ;  her  nose  a  little  hooked;  her 
lips  narrow,  and  her  teeth  black,  a  defect  whereunto  the  English 
do  seem  subject,  from  their  too  great  use  of  sugar.  From  her 
ears  did  depend  two  pearls,  with  exceeding  rich  drops  ;  she  did 
wear  false  hair,  and  that  red  ;  over  which  she  had  a  small  crown 
of  Lunenberg  table  gold  :  her  bosom  was  uncovered ;  thence 
she  was  dressed  in  white  silk,  burdened  with  pearls,  the  size  of 
beans,  over  which  was  a  black  mantle.' 

22 


338  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

• 

When  I  read  this,  good  heaven !  what  a  pattern  of  female 
grace  and  nobleness  faded  from  my  mind.  This,  then,  was  Eliz 
abeth  !  The  two  portraits  shown  by  Hamlet  to  his  mother  were 
.not  more  dissimilar  than  this  and  mine.  Mine  was  a  free  draw 
ing ;  Hentzner's  an  unquestioned  original.  And  was  this  the 
Queen  for  whom  the  bards  of  her  day  thought  it  an  honor  t<* 
weave  their  lays ;  and  who  considered  it  the  summum  bonum  mt& 
to  bask  in  her  royal  favor?  Was  this  the  peerless  personage  in 
whose  service  the  high-born  Sidney  fluttered  and  did  the  amiable  ; 
in  whose  cause  he  fought  and  died  ?  The  very  same.  Oh  flesh-! 
by  partial  pens  how  art  thou  glorified ! 

Talking  of  Sidney,  leads  me  to  say,  that  his  case  is  another 
instance  in  my  experience  of  the  false  Ideal.  He  has  stood  in 
the  mirage  of  my  conception,  a  knight  unparagon'd  ;  a  poet  as 
full  of  personal  grace  as  his  verses  are  of  beauty.  He  was  the 
favorite  of  the  most  intellectual  court  in  Europe ;  the  mark  and 
model  of  his  sex ;  the  cynosure  of  the  ladies.  He  has  appeared 
to  me,  clothed  in  ihepurpureum  lumen  of  nobility ;  the  valiant 
oracle  and  pet  of  his  fair  sovereign  ;  walking  and  talking  with 
her,  in  English,  French,  Italian,  Scotch,  Dutch,*  '  and  so ;'  in 
fine,  the  very  concrete  of  gentlemen.  I  have  supposed  him  win- 
ningly  tall  and  majestic  ;  easy  as  Adonis  ;  with  his  lace  points  all 
adjusted,  and  his  bow  superb.  But  Hentzner  has  dissolved  the 
vision,  by  furnishing  an  engraved  portrait,  undoubtedly  authentic, 
in  which  he  is  represented  sitting  clumsily  on  a  bank,  like  a 
shepherd  of  Arcady,  with  a  form  fat,  oily,  and  burly,  a  bulbous 
nose,  a  double  chin,  and  eyes  of  a  deplorably  lack-lustre  leer ! 
I  shall  never  think  of  Sidney  as  a  perfect  courtier  and  preux 
chevalier  again. 

It  were  a  grievous  list  indeed  that  should  contain  all  those  al 
terations  which  the  stern  pencil  of  truth  has  painted  upon  the 
first  pictures  of  great  people  in  my  mind.  It  has  substituted  the 
coarse  for  the  comely,  and  flung  harsh  shades  over  beauties  of 
sky-tinctured  grain.'  Warriors  have  dwindled  into  Lilliputians : 
diplomatists  into  hair-brained  invalids  ;  empresses  into  dowdies. 
Taking  a  fancy  view  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  across  the  At 
lantic,  I  have  supposed  him  a  lofty  personage,  six  feet  nine  in  his 
boots,  with  an  eye  like  Mars,  and  a  curl  of  disdainful  dignity  in 
his  monstrous  nose.  But  he  is  a  little  pocket  edition  of  a  man, 
with  a  bended  back,  a  countenance  in  no  wise  prepossessing,  and 
legs  approximating  to  that  parenthesis  state  called  the  bandy. 
Julius  Caesar!  how  the  late  describers  of  that  man  have  unde 
ceived  me  ! 

*  ELIZABETH  understood  all  these  languages. 


THE     IDEAL.  339 

Just  so  with  Talleyrand.  I  thought  him  a  diplomatic  weazel; 
ever  wide  awake,  with  ears  erect,  and  ready  to  slip  out  of  any 
negotiation  that  the  finesse  of  court  forecaste  or  private  instruc 
tions  might  suggest.  But  he  is  just  the  contrary.  Instead  of 
being  filled  with  deceitful  animation,  his  visage  is  soporific ;  his 
manner  languid,  nay  stupid ;  and  the  last  portrait  —  the  latest  and 
best,  I  suppose  —  has  sketched  him  asleep  ! 

But  because  history  darkens  my  ideal,  shall  I  refuse  to  chase 
it  ?  No,  by  my  halidome  !  I  love  the  journeyings  of  thought. 
I  will  travel  often  over  those  exclusive  railways  of  the  mind  ; 
passing  by  castles,  towers,  lakes,  wide-watered  shores  and  splen 
did  towns  ;  through  fields  made  Champs  Elysees  by  the  poets, 
and  over  hills  renowned  in  song.  I  have  seen  those  who  sur 
passed  my  brightest  beau-ideal  —  living,  moving,  breathing,  be 
ings.  If  I  should  see  them  again,  something  will  have  vanished 
to  break  the  charm  —  to  dissolve  the  spell.  I  choose  to  hug 
these  camera  obscura  pictures  to  my  heart ;  though  with  reference 
to  their  characters,  histories  should  be  caught  fibbing,  and  chron 
iclers  be  falsified. 


340  PROSE     MISCELLANIES. 


JOHN    SMITH. 

cmen  of  pith, 

Sixteen  called  Thompson,  and  nineteen  named  Smith.' 

BYRON. 

MY  name  is  JOHN  SMITH.  The  first  important  event  of  my 
life  was  my  birth  ;  but  of  that  my  reminiscences  are  faint,  of 
course.  John  Jenkins  Smith  was  my  father's  name  ;  and,  until 
my  twelfth  year,  I  was  called  John  Jenkins  Smith,  Junior ;  the 
middle  appellation  being  in  compliment  to  the  sir-names  of  my 
uncle  and  aunt,  Increase  and  Abundance  Jenkins.  In  the  fitness 
of  time,  my  father  deceased.  He  was  an  estimable  individual, 
and  did  a  good  business  in  the  line  of  bar-soap ;  the  avails  aris 
ing  from  the  sale  of  which  article  created  a  decent  competency 
for  the  necessities  of  his  surviving  family.  He  was  an  industrious 
man,  with  habits  uncommonly  domestic.  My  mother,  nine  broth 
ers,  and  seven  sisters,  lived  to  mourn  his  loss. 

After  the  demise  of  my  father,  it  was  my  mother's  wish  and 
advice,  that  I  should  drop  the  Jenkins  and  the  Junior  from  my 
title,  and  adopt  the  simple  cognomen  of  John  Smith.  Persua 
sion  at  last  induced  me  to  comply  with  her  desires  ;  and  dearly 
have  I  paid  for  my  acquiescence.  The  simplicity  of  the  name 
has  been  fruitful  of  mystery.  Innumerable  are  the  vexations  and 
difficulties  into  which  it  has  led  me.  Were  I  to  relate  them,  in 
the  swelling  style  of  modern  writers,  I  do  verily  believe  that  the 
world  would  not  contain  my  books.  But  the  task  is  too  formid 
able,  even  if  I  were  fond  of  authorship,  which,  I  thank  heaven,  I 
am  not.  My  name  forbids  the  thought.  The  wise  may  cogi 
tate  from  the  tripod,  and  the  dunce  twaddle  on  his  stool.  I 
shall  not  arise  to  push  them  from  their  places.  Save  in  the  Di 
rectory  and  the  census,  I  shall  be  nominis  umbra. 

When  one  arrives  in  a  large  city,  it  is  a  common  simile  to 
liken  him  to  a  drop  of  water  falling  into  the  ocean ;  it  mingles, 
and  is  lost,  in  the  vasty  deep.  So  I  found  it,  when  I  left  my 
native  village  *  up  the  river'  for  the  metropolis,  in  more  ways  than 
one.  I  ascertained  by  a  glance  at  the  Directory,  that  I  was  one 
among  hundreds  who  bore  my  personal  appellation.  Having 
passed  my  time  from  youth  to  early  manhood  in  the  country,  the 
bustle  and  buzz  of  a  vast  city  like  this  almost  drave  me  crazy. 
Like  John  Jones,  in  the  play  of  that  name,  '  I  was  excited.' 
Forthwith  I  made  my  way  to  the  Adelphi.  I  had  a  fair  share  of 
money,  and  the  picture  of  that  hotel,  hung  in  the  steamboat  cabin, 


JOHN    SMITH.  341 

had  captivated  my  eye.  Glancing  at  the  travellers'  book  in  the 
bar-room,  I  perceived  my  name  three  times  repeated.  I  began 
to  think  myself  of  consequence.  '  Doubtless,'  said  I,  '  the  sev 
eral  coachmen  who  stood  on  the  wharf  with  uplifted,  beckoning 
whips,  awaited  my  commands,  and  who  ascertained  my  destina 
tion,  have  come  hither  in  advance,  to  record  my  arrival.'  I  was 
unsophisticated  in  those  days.  Those  things  which  we  chew  the 
cud  of  wisdom  withal,  namely,  eye-teeth,  had  not  then  been  cut. 
I  thought,  with  a  pleasing  sensation,  of  the  truth  of  the  old  poet's 
remark,  that  one  always  finds  *  the  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn.' 

Purposes  of  business  brought  me  to  town.  It  was  my  inten- ' 
tion,  after  passing  a  year  or  two  at  mercantile  apprenticeship  in 
the  city,  to  become  a  country  trader ;  and  I  had  resolved  from 
the  first  to  make  all  the  acquaintances  I  could.  I  was  rejoiced 
to  hear,  the  morning  after  my  arrival,  that  several  persons  whom 
I  did  not  see,  had  inquired  after  my  health  at  the  Adelphi.  I 
knew  I  had  many  friends  who  had  come  to  the  Great  Babel  be 
fore  me  ;  but  I  had  not  the  most  distant  suspicion  that  they  would 
remember  the  *  gawkey,'  as  they  used  to  call  me,  whom  they 
knew  at  home.  However,  I  solaced  my  mind  with  reflections 
on  my  growing  importance,  and  indulged  myself  in  pleasing  an 
ticipations  of  the  success  which  these  acquaintances  would  yet 
induce  for  me. 

I  was  fond  of  strolling  through  the  streets  in  the  morning, 
when  the  glitter  and  stir  of  fashion  were  abroad,  and  I  never 
failed  to  walk  myself  hungry  before  twelve  o'clock.  An  adver 
tisement  which  I  had  inserted  in  the  newspapers,  of,  '  Wants  a 
place,  a  young  man  from  the  country,  with  an  extensive  knowl 
edge  of  figures,  who  writes  a  good  hand,'  had  been  successful. 
I  had  procured  a  situation,  and  was  to  enter  upon  its  duties  in  a 
fortnight.  Of  course,  I  was  delighted ;  and  remembering  my 
boyish  scrape-maxim,  (Dum  vivimus  vivamus^  I  resolved  to  enjoy 
my  time.  So,  on  each  day  at  twelve  o'clock,  I  was  wont  to  re 
sort  to  one  of  those  famous  ordinaries  in  Broadway,  where  all 
that  the  human  appetite  can  crave  is  spread  before  the  eye  in 
rich  profusion.  *  A  fig  for  the  expense,'  said  I,  '  the  things  are 
good,  and  I  wish  to  make  acquaintances  for  my  employers.' 

At  the  resort  of  which  I  am  speaking,  it  seemed  to  me  that  all 
the  town  convened.  There,  from  eleven  until  five,  were  to  be  seen 
vast  numbers  of  voracious  aldermen,  and  opulent  good-livers,  de 
vouring  their  respective  lunches.  Many  a  one  of  these,  as  he 
came  out,  went  along  the  streets  with  a  pleased  and  satisfied 
countenance, 

4  Smiting  his  thigh,  with  blythe  Apician  glee, 
And  licking  eke  his  lips,  right  beautiful  to  see.' 


342  PROSE     MISCELLANIES. 

Of  course,  there  were  many  faces  that  I  came  at  last  to  know 
*  passing  well.'  One  individual,  especially,  in  a  suit  of  rusty 
brown,  a  bell-crowned  hat,  and  a  bombazine  stock  of  blue,  used 
every  day  to  enter  the  apartment  just  at  the  time  I  did,  and  seat 
himself  at  the  marble  table  next  me.  By  degrees,  we  became 
slightly  acquainted.  Being  a  regular  visitor,  my  name  and  lodg 
ings  were  soon  known  to  the  bar-keeper.  One  morning,  the 
man  in  brown  picked  up  a  letter  from  the  floor  under  his  table, 
and  asked  me  if  I  had  dropped  it.  I  told  him  I  had  neither 
written  nor  lost  any. 

*  Very  singular,'  said  he,  without  putting  the  epistle  into  my 
hands ;  *  I  will  make  inquiries  about  it.'     He  showed  it  to  the 
keeper,  who  opened  it,  and  after  casting  his  eye  down  the  page, 
bowed  politely  to  me,  and  said,  '  Certainly,  certainly,  with  pleas 
ure.'     The  whole  affair  was  an  enigma  ;  but  I  was  as  green  at 
that  time  as  a  new-hatched  gosling.     Supposing  the  person  had 
mistaken  his  man,  but  not  wishing  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy,  I 
bowed  and  smiled  in  return. 

Shortly  after,  when  I  had  taken  my  usual  meal,  and  was  about 
to  render  the  trifling  equivalent,  the  keeper  said  to  me  : 
1  This  is  Mr.  John  Smith,  I  believe.' 

*  Yes,  that  is  my  name.' 

*  Got  a  certain  note  about  you ;  the  bill  is  all  right ;  put  up 
your  money.' 

I  did  n't  understand  him. 

1  You  are  Mr.  John  Smith,  at  the  Adelphi  ?' 

1  Yes.     I  am  at  that  hotel.' 

'  Very  well,  my  dear  Sir,  the  note  is  accepted.  Your  bills  are 
paid  until  farther  notice.' 

'  Well,  thought  I,  my  friends  are  polite,  that  is  truth.  I  have 
almost  the  freedom  of  the  city.  How  curiously  agreeable  !  I 
continued  to  go  for  days  and  weeks  together,  and  eat  at  this  or 
dinary,  '  without  money  and  without  price.'  He  in  the  brown 
coat  was  ever  present. 

At  the  end  of  the  month,  I  received  at  my  hotel  a  bill  of  forty 
dollars,  for  edibles  used  at  the  ordinary  aforesaid.  I  hurried  to 
the  place,  and  demanded  an  explanation.  I  was  informed  that 
the  man  in  brown  had  given  a  letter  to  the  keeper,  under  my  very 
nose,  requesting  lunches  for  two  every  morning,  the  bill  to  be 
sent  monthly  to  John  Smith,  at  the  Adelphi.  References  were 
given,  and  had  been  answered,  all  by  the  same  hand ! 

It  was  a  broad  hoax;  and  after  paying  the  money,  as  I  was 
obliged  to  do,  (it  was  left  '  to  my  honor '  that  potent  opener  of 
purse-strings,)  I  found  that  one  of  the  three  John  Smiths  whose 


JOHN    SMITH.  343 

names  were  written  at  the  Adelphi,  was  a  chevalier  ^Industrie, 
who  passed  as  my  friend  at  the  lunch,  and  my  cousin  John  at 
the  hotel.  He  came  down  with  me  in  the  steam-boat.  I  never 
saw  him  after  he  was  '  Mowed.'  This  was  the  first  practical  attack 
on  my  name  ;  but  by  how  many  dozens  was  it  not  the  last !  Let 
me  go  on. 

There  is  scarcely  any  body  who  has  not  been  in  love,  as  often 
as  once,  at  least.  I  have  had  my  flame,  but  my  name  quenched 
it.  About  the  third  month  of  my  mercantile  apprenticeship,  I 
was  induced  on  a  certain  evening  to  attend  one  of  those  convo 
cations,  a  sacred  concert ;  and  at  first  sight,  I  became  attached 
to  a  lady  who  was  attached  to  the  choir.  She  looked  like  a  di 
vinity,  she  sang  like  an  angel. 

I  followed  her  to  her  house,  when  the  concert  broke  up,  to  as 
certain  her  residence  ;  and  from  that  time,  my  life  was  one  wild 
dream  of  suspense  and  passion.  I  used  to  see  her  every  day  or 
two  at  the  window,  and  sometimes  at  church.  A  good-looking 
young  man,  who  lodged  at  the  Adelphi,  and  for  whom  I  had 
often  been  taken,  seemed  to  be  pursuing  the  same  object.  When 
I  went  in  that  direction,  he  generally  walked  a  few  yards  behind 
me,  as  constant  to  rny  trip,  as  the  shadow  to  the  substance ;  but 
as  he  went  beyond,  I  supposed  he  had  friends  farther  on,  in  the 
same  street ;  for  he  gassed  the  house,  whereas  I  saw  nothing 
worth  a  step  beyond,  and  used  to  '  wheel  about'  like  a  militia 
man,  directly  in  front  of  the  domicil,  when  my  eye  had  drunk  in 
its  dizzy  poison  from  the  window.  One  evening,  just  at  twilight, 
I  saw  my  Adelphi  friend  standing  on  the  steps  of  my  lady's 
dwelling.  Good  heavens  !  Perhaps  he  knew  her.  I  sought  my 
hotel  with  a  spirit  of  envy,  that  I  find  it  hard  to  describe.  Was 
that  man  my  rival  ? 

The  next  day  I  received  a  scented  note,  in  a  fine  crow-quill 
hand,  which  ran  as  ensueth : 

lNo. , Street. 

*  MY  DEAR  JOHN  :  We  do  not  know  each  other  well,  for  we  have  been 
thwarted  by  the  presence  of  untoward  circumstances ;  but  surely,  my  dear, 
my  only  John,  the  language  of  my  eyes  must  have  convinced  you  that 
since  we  first  met,  my  heart  has  been  wholly  yours.  Come  to-morrow- 
evening  at  eight,  and  in  a  walk  of  a  few  moments,  I  will  convince  you,  if 
words  can  do  it,  of  the  unalterable  affection  of  your  devoted 

*  CATHARINE  WALLACE. 
•JOHN  SMITH,  Esq.,  Adelphi.' 

I  have  a  notion  that  my  punctuality  the  next  evening  was  a 
model  of  mercantile  precision.  As  the  town-clocks  were  clang 
ing  eight,  my  hand  was  on  the  knocker  of  the  Wallace  door.  A 
very  attentive  *  color'  person'  answered  my  call,  and  in  a  moment 


344  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

after  my  inquiry,  the  arm  of  Miss  Wallace  was  in  mine,  trembling 
with  hurry  and  agitation.  We  walked  for  the  space  of  nearly  '  a. 
block,'  without  the  utterance  of  any  thing  but  low  interjections 
of  pleasure,  and  an  occasional  remark  upon  that  inexhaustible 
subject,  the  weather. 

We  turned  into  Broadway.  Here,  in  the  blaze  of  gas  lights, 
we  met  abruptly,  two  gentlemen,  who  turned  after  passing  us, 
and  striding  hastily  a  few  paces  before,  like  Othello's  lady,  they 
'  turned  again,'  and  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  pouring  out  some 
tender  sayings,  one  of  the  fellows,  staring  at  the  face  of  my  fair 
companion,  exclaimed  : 

*  Good  gracious  !     Miss  Wallace,  is  that  you  ?' 

It  was  my  tracking  friend,  of  the  Adelphi.  J  knew  his  voice 
instantly.  The  lady  dropped  my  arm,  as  if  she  had  received  a 
death-shot. 

*  Why  are  you  walking  with  this  man,  and  how  did  you  come  to 
know  him  ?'     Miss  Wallace  answered  with  a  faltering  voice,  that 
she  did  not  know  me,  but  had  mistaken  me  for  himself.     '  Dear 
John,'  said  she,  did  you  not  get  my  note  this  morning  ?     I  ex 
pected  you  to  walk  with  me,  and  not  a  person  with  whom  I  have 
no  acquaintance  whatever.' 

Guess  my  surprise.  I  was,  as  the  Kentuckians  phrase  it,  '  an 
entire  stranger.'  The  gallant  began  to  bluster. 

*  Will — you — just — permit — me — to  —  ask — you,'  said  he 
to  me,  cocking  his  hat  fiercely  o'  one  side,  and  drawling  his 
words,  sotto  voce,  through  his  set  teeth,  '  who  the  devil  you  are  ? 
what  you  are  here  for  ?  what's  your  name  ?  and  what  you  are 
after?  (syncopating  the  last  word  with  a  broad  inflection  of  the 
first  syllable.)     I  have  seen  you  at  the  Adelphi,  and  I  begin  to 
think  you  are  a  puppy.' 

*  Puppy,  I  am  none,'  said  I  coolly,  for  I  hate  fighting,  *  and 
my  being  with  this  lady  at  present,  is  the  result  of  concert.     I  re 
ceived  a  note  from  her  this  morning,  requesting  an  interview.' 

*  Liar  !'  said  the  gentleman. 

4  That  phrase,'  I  responded  meekly,  *  would  not  be  borne,  if  I 
considered  you  a  good  judge  of  the  truth  in  the  present  case.  I 
happen  to  have  the  note  in  my  pocket,  Sir ;  and  as  you  are  very 
inquisitive,  let  me  return  the  compliment,  and  ask  your  name  V 

'  My  name,  sa ;  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  name,  sa,  as  you  ap 
pear  to  be  of  yours  ;  my  name,  sa,  is JOHN  SMITH  !' 

'And  so  is  mine.  Here's  the  heart  of  the  mystery.  I  see  at 
once  that  the  similarity  of  our  names  has  been  the  cause  of  this 
error.  Your  note  fell  into  my  hands.  I  never  spoke  to  this 
lady,  before  to-night,  in  all  my  life,  though  I  have  for  some  time 
occasionally  seen  and  admired  her,  at  a  distance.' 


JOHN    SMITH.  345 

We  were  friends  in  a  moment.  The  young  damsel  had  acci 
dentally  made  his  acquaintance,  a  week  or  two  previously,  after 
an  extensive  interchange  of  oglings,  at  churches,  and  other  public 
resorts,  and  they  were,  it  was  plain  to  see,  quite  desperate  with 
each  other.  I  could  not  help  comparing  myself  to  the  man  in 
the  play,  whose  servant  says  to  him  ;  '  Maister,  ar'  n't  your  name 
Gregory  ?'  '  Yes,  Sir  R.  Gregory.'  '  So  is  mine.'  '  Ah,  then 
your  name  is  similar.'  '  No,  master,  my  name  ar'  n't  Similar, 
my  name  's  Gregory  !' 

These  amusing  reflections  were  but  a  momentary  gleam  of 
sunshine  on  the  cloud  which  darkened  my  spirit.  My  dream  of 
love  was  broken.  Another  John  Smith  had  stepped  into  my 
bower  of  hope,  and  plucked  the  brightest  rose  it  ever  grew.  I 
became  '  melancholy  and  gentleman-like ;'  went  to  conventicles 
with  great  regularity,  and  read  a  multitude  of  books.  By  de 
grees  I  began  to  have  quite  a  passion  for  literature,  and  tried  my 
hand  in  the  light  department,  as  a  producer.  With  the  assistance 
of  Ossian,  and  a  rhyming  dictionary,  I  made  some  poetry,  and 
sent  it  to  a  popular  weekly  journal.  It  was  entitled  'A  River 
Scene,'  and  bore  for  its  motto  the  following  couplet  from  some 
grand  inconnu  : 

*  'T  is  sweet,  upon  the  impassioned  wave, 
To  watch  the  little  fishes  swim.' 

Ambitious  of  distinction,  I  wrote  my  name  in  full  at  the  top  of 
the  piece.  What  kind  of  reception,  think  you,  did  it  encounter? 
Reader,  read : 

*  JOHN  SMITH'S  poetry  is  received,  and  has  gone  to  that  vast  receptacle 
of  things  lost  for  the  present  upon  earth,  on  the  cover  of  which  it  is  thus 
written:  'Rejected  Balaam:  Clauduntur  in  ceternam  noctem.1  We  would 
advise  John  Smith  to  give  up  his  visions  of  fame.  Let  them  dissolve  into 
airy  nothing,  for  they  produce  nothing,  and  out  of  nothing,  nothing  comes. 
No  man,  with  exactly  his  two  names,  need  expect  glory  below  the  sun. 
The  last  one  is  not  the  objection  ;  for  the  Jones's,  the  Browns,  Thompsons, 
and  Jacksons,  with  many  other  names,  might  compete  with  it  in  point  of 
numbers  ;  but  the  baptismal  prefix  of  John,  makes  the  title  no  name  at  all; 
and  thus,  if  we  mistake  not,  has  the  matter  been  ruled  in  courts  of  justice. 
We  beg  our  correspondent  to  drop  either  the  lyre  or  his  name  ;  for  he  will 
labor  in  vain  for  renown,  unless  he  prays  the  legislature  for  a  divorce  from 
his  present  cognomen. 

'  John  Smith,  John  Smith,  oh  Phosbus  !  what  a  name 
To  fill  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame!' 

This  unequivocal  compliment  almost  extinguished  my  lyrical 
propensities.  I  was  convinced  that  John  Smith  would  never 
make  any  respectable  sensation  in  literature.  Cruel  thought !  A 
rose  would  smell  as  sweet,  according  to  Shakspeare,  even  if  it 
were  called  ipecacuanha,  as  by  any  other  name.  Why  then, 


346  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

from  such  a  cause,  should  a  barrier  be  placed  against  the  aspira 
tions  of  an  ambitious  mortal  ?  The  idea  was  not  endurable.  I 
determined  to  be  even  with  the  editor  who  had  so  crucified  my 
lines.  A  rival  publication  had  offered  prizes  for  an  Essay,  a 
Tale,  and  some  poetry.  It  wanted  a  month  before  the  meeting 
of  the  committee.  I  spent  a  fortnight  on  one  poem.  The  paper 
in  question  was  great  in  a  small  way,  and  bore  on  its  cover  a 
learned  motto,  '  from  the  Greek  of  Alcaeus.'  The  time  arrived  ; 
the  committee  convened  ;  the  award  was  made  ;  and  what  was  my 
delight  on  reading  in  the  public  journals  the  following  announce 
ment  : 

'NOTICE. 

'  THE  committee  appointed  to  examine  the  pieces  of  prose  and  poetry, 
designed  for  the  prizes  in  the  'Oriental  Olympiad  and  Weekly  Sunburst,' 
beg  leave  to  report,  that  after  a  close  examination  of  the  matters  confided  to 
their  discrimination,  they  have  come  to  a  decision.  Private  notice  has  al 
ready  been  made  to  the  modest  and  successful  authors  of  the  Essay  and 
Tale.  Before  giving  the  name  of  the  victorious  writer  of  the  poem  to  the 
world,  the  committee  desire  to  state,  that  with  reference  to  the  two  baskets 
of  accepted  and  rejected  productions,  now  in  the  office  of  the  Sunburst, 
they  cannot  make  a  more  fitting  comparison,  than  by  likening  them  to  the 
figs  of  Jeremiah  ;  (Jer.  xxiv.  2.)  '  One  basket  had  very  good  figs,  even  like 
the  figs  that  are  first  ripe  ;  and  the  other  basket  had  very  naughty  figs, 
which  could  not  be  eaten,  they  were  so  bad.'  The  committee  now  pro 
ceed,  with  a  feeling  of  serene  and  solemn  exultation,  to  commit  to  the  pub 
lic  eye  at  this  era,  and  to  that  which  shall  lift  its  lid  in  future  ages,  the 
name  of  the  distinguished  person  who  has  won  the  guerdon  of  twenty-five 
dollars,  and  a  year's  gratuitous  subscription  to  the  Olympiad  and  Sunburst. 
It  is  JOHN  SMITH,  Esq.,  of  New-York.  He  will  readily  comprehend  his  pu 
tative  identity,  when  the  committee  remark,  that  his  effusion  commences 
with  a  spirited  invocation  to  the  Nine.  The  committee  will  be  prepared  to 
meet  him,  and  to  administer  into  his  hands  the  twenty-five  dollars,  and  a 
year's  receipt  for  the  popular  journal  aforesaid,  on  Tuesday  evening  next, 
at  six  o'clock,  in  the  saloon  of  the  City  Hotel.  That  the  author  may  be 
received  without  the  embarrassment  of  self-introduction,  he  is  requested  to 
wear  a  white  favor  in  the  lappel  button-hole  of  his  coat ;  whereupon,  on  his 
entrance,  he  will  be  introduced  to  the  company,  and  receive  the  pecuniary 
tribute  due  to  his  extraordinary  genius.  Many  ladies,  amateurs,  and  litera 
ry  gentlemen,  will  be  present. 

4  Nov.  25.  eod.  ass.  dif.' 

I  read  this  notice  over  at  least  forty  times,  before  the  appointed 
evening.  On  that  day,  after  dinner,  I  dressed  with  studied  neat 
ness,  and  turning  down  my  collar,  a  la  Byron,  brushed  my  red 
dish  locks,  Apollo-like,  around  my  forehead,  in  a  style  of  sub 
lime  confusion,  and  awaited  with  a  palpitating  bosom  the  proud 
moment  when  I  should  enter  the  saloon.  I  paused  some  thirty 
minutes  after  the  appointed  time,  so  that  expectation  should  be 
on  tiptoe.  At  last  I  sallied  forth,  and  with  a  queer  feeling  of 
transport  opened  the  door  of  the  saloon  and  entered.  There 


JOHN   SMITH.  347 

was  a  collection  of  people ;  and  at  one  side  of  the  room,  like 
stinted  wall-flowers,  stood  aline  of  wo-begone-looking  individuals, 
to  the  number  of  fifteen,  each  with  a  white  favor  in  his  bosom, 
but  with  such  diversified  garments !  *  Motley  was  their  only 
wear.'  I  was  surprised,  bewildered.  At  the  request  of  the  com 
mittee,  tendered  through  their  chairman,  I  took  my  station  '  in 
line.'  A  subdued  snicker  ran  through  the  room,  as  two  more 
persons,  bearing  white  favors,  entered,  and  stepped  by  direction 
into  the  ranks  below  me.  I  stole  a  glance  at  my  comrades. 
They  were  silent,  grim,  and  sad  to  see.  We  all  of  us  looked 
like  a  small  company,  detailed  for  private  exercise,  from  *  the 
great  army  of  martyrs.' 

At  last  the  chairman  rose,  and  waving  his  hand  loftily,  said : 
'  An  unexpected  duty,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  devolves  upon  the 
humble  person  who  now  addresses  you.  Called  to  my  office  at 
a  moment  of  peculiar  excitement,  I  wish  to  discharge  its  duties 
with  approval.  I  expected  to-night,  in  the  presence  of  you  all, 
to  pay  a  delegated  honor  to  the  genius  of  one  bright  son  of  song. 
But  I  am  obliged  to  select  him  from  yon  troop  of  tuneful  worthies 
now  arranged  before  the  assembly,  every  one  of  whom,  by  a 
singular  concatenation  of  parental  tastes,  bears  the  name  of  John 

Smith  r 

I  could  have  evaporated  through  the  key-hole.  My  first  im 
pulse  was  to  cut  and  run.  A  second  thought  told  me,  I  might  be 
the  John  Smith,  and  I  determined  to  see  the  farce  out. 

'  In  this  state  of  uncertainty,'  continued  the  chairman,  *  the 
only  method  of  arriving  at  the  successful  author  is  to  read  the 
accepted  lines.' 

He  began  to  read  them  with  the  lungs  of  a  Stentor,  and  the 
gestic  grace  of  an  elephant.  They  were  not  mine,  that  was  cer 
tain;  poor,  drawling,  spiritless  stanzas,  mere  verbiage  to  mine. 
My  contempt  for  the  committee  was  unbounded. 

But  a  person  now  jumped  out  from  our  row,  with  the  quick 
ness  of  a  Narraganset  pacer ;  bowed,  was  identified  as  the  au 
thor,  and  took  his  perquisites.  When  he  wheeled  again,  and 
made  a  derisive  inclination  of  the  head  to  the  rest  of  us  unsuc 
cessful  essayists,  I  did  instantly,  by  the  sinister  smirk  of  his  face, 
recognise  the  ecstatic  entity.  It  was  the  rascal  in  brown,  whose 
bill  I  had  paid  at  the  lunch ! 

I  remember  little  of  the  occasion  after  this.  I  only  recollect 
that  some  of  the  '  great  rejected'  swore  with  emphasis,  that  they 
had  been  sadly  misused.  Each  man  contended  for  the  peculiar 
merit  of  his  own  composition,  every  one  of  which,  even  to  the  en 
tire  eighteen,  opened  with  an  appeal  to  the  muse  for  assistance. 


348  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

One  man,  who  seemed  a  little  excited  with  wine,  declared  that 
1  he  came  there  for  the  prize,  and  the  prize  he  would  have  ;  he 
had  already  engaged  a  supper  below,  for  himself  and  a  few  friends, 
on  the  strength  of  the  prize  ;  «  and  I  would  like  to  know,'  he 
added,  with  a  sardonic  grin  of  defiance,  '  who  in  the  name  of 
Parnassus  is  a-going  to  pay  the  bill  ?  My  heart  is  heaving  and 
bursting  with  emotion.  What  is  to  requite  us  all  for  our  disap 
pointment  ? 

*  Or  our  soul-stirring  hopes  we  are  in  at  the  death, 
And  we  stand,  as  in  battle  array, 

To  find  our  renown  but  a  bodiless  breath, 
That  vanisheth  away  !' ' 

1  Messieurs  Smith,'  said  the  chairman,  entirely  disregarding  the 
loquacious  member,  *  you  are  dismissed.  Your  badges,  beside 
being  emblems  of  peace,  which  will  prevent  any  wranglings 
among  yourselves,  are  also  signs  that  you  feel  independent,  and 
ask  no  favors?  Here  the  company  laughed,  in  the  manner  of  a 
certain  popular  actress,  '  like  hyenas.' 

How  the  company  broke  up,  I  know  not.  I  was  the  first  at 
the  door,  and  walked  up  Broadway  with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  al 
though  the  weather  was  drizzling.  I  have  never  entirely  recov 
ered  from  the  acidity  of  spirit  which  that  sore  discomfiture  entail 
ed  upon  me.  I  had  been  crossed  in  love  and  literature  ;  and  my 
coming  days  seemed  only  to  me,  a  helpless  wanderer  on  the 
ocean  of  time,  like  *  breakers  ahead.'  And  so  they  have  proved. 
I  have  been  advertised  in  the  newspapers ;  persecuted  by  fe 
males  whom  I  knew  not ;  had  callow  bantlings  laid  on  my  door 
steps.  In  short,  I  have  suffered  every  thing  but  death ;  and  all 
for  my  name.  In  vain  do  I  attempt  to  console  myself,  by  think 
ing  of  one  great  name  like  mine,  the  captain,  who  was  saved  by 
the  Indian  girl,  Pocahontas,  and  two  that  are  '  similar,'  the  re 
nowned  Horace  and  James,  the  wittiest  men  living.  I  am  still 
plodding  along  the  vale  of  existence,  looking  at  the  bright  steep 
of  fame  in  the  distance,  knowing  it  '  impossible  to  climb.'  My 
name  hangs  to  my  tail  as  heavy  as  the  stone  of  Sysiphus.  I  al 
most  wish  I  was  entirely  defunct. 

Having  long  ago  removed  from  the  Adelphi,  in  consequence 
of  a  l  collapse'  in  its  prosperity,  I  have  got  a  home  of  my  own, 
and  am  well  to  do  in  the  world.  But  I  am  not  happy.  I  disburse 
the  postage  for  a  weekly  mass  of  letters,  of  which  three  in  five 
are  intended  for  others.  I  read  notices  concerning  me,  hyme 
neal  and  obituary,  several  times  in  a  month.  I  have  been  waited 
upon  simultaneously,  by  persons  who  had  come  to  wish  me  joy, 
in  the  expectancy  of  a  punch-drinking,  and  by  rival  tomb-stone 


JOHN    SMITH.  349 

• 

cutters,  desirous  of  a  job  '  to  my  memory,'  from  the  surviving 
members  of  my  bachelor  household.  I  pay  twice  my  own 
amount  of  bills.  A  John  Smith  lives  next  door,  to  whom  half 
my  choice  rounds  and  sirloins,  selected  personally  in  the  market, 
for  I  love  good  provant,  are  sent  without  distinction.  My  name  is 
a  bore,  and  my  life  a  burden.  Touching  the  debts  I  have  paid, 
which  were  not  my  own,  they  have  harassed  me  beyond  measure. 
Such  is  the  perplexity  arising  from  their  constant  and  unavoida 
ble  occurrence,  that  I  begin  to  think  myself  a  member'  of  that 
class  of  reprobates,  mentioned  by  St.  Paul,  in  his  Epistle  to  the 
Romans,  who  have  been  given  up  by  Divine  Providence,  « to  do 
those  things  which  are  not  convenient.'1  Heartily  do  I  wish  I 
could  do  as  the  Druids  of  old  did,  who  contracted  earthly  debts 
for  themselves  and  others,  and  gave  promissory  notes,  payable  in 
the  other  world. 

But  I  forbear  to  recite  my  infelicities.  I  skip  over  some  hun 
dreds,  and  come  to  the  latest.  Yesterday  morning  the  following 
police  report  met  my  eye  : 

'JoHN  SMITH,  a  new  offender,  was  on  Monday  last  committed  to  Bride 
well,  charged  with  having  stolen  several  descriptions  of  clothes  from  various 
hotels  in  Broadway.  He  formerly  made  his  home  at  the  Adelphi,  where 
he  practised  his  light  fingered  arts  for  a  considerable  time.  He  was  at  one 
period  '  well-off,'  and  lived  in  Broadway,  but  his  thieving  propensities  have 
brought  him  up,  at  last,  to  a  full  stop.  Bail  having  been  procured,  he  is 
now  at  large,  but  so  well  known,  that  his  career  is  now  comparatively 
harmless.' 

This  is  the  latest,  but  not  the  Last.  I  have  met  scores  of  ac 
quaintances  since  yesterday,  and  they  all  shun  me  as  if  they 
scented  in  my  garments  the  air  of  a  jail  ;  all  but  one  puppy,  and 
he  asked  me  '  when  I  got  out!'  There  is  ample  botheration  in 
store  for  me.  Its  kind  I  know  not,  but  the  quantity  must  be 
enormous.  I  will  bear  it  no  longer.  I  have  booked  myself  for 
Albany  to-morrow ;  and  if  I  am  not  released  from  my  name  by 
the  House,  I  will  go,  for  refuge,  to  that  narrow  house  appointed 
for  all  living ;  and  on  my  tomb-stone  shall  be  recorded,  in  good 
*  slap-up'  Latin,  '/Szc  transit  tristitia  Johannes  SmithiT 


350  PROSE    MISCELLANIES 


THE    SNAKE    EATER. 

'  Some  strange  commotion 

Is  in  his  brain :  he  bites  his  lip,  and  starts; 
Stops  on  a  sudden,  looks  upon  the  ground, 
Then  lays  his  finger  on  his  temple;  straight 
Springs  out  into  fast  gait;  then  stops  again, 
Strikes  his  breast  hard;  and  then  anon  he  casts 
His  eye  against  the  moon  ;  in  most  strange  posture 
We  have  seen  him  set  himself.' 

SHAKS  :  HENRY  Vnr. 

A  FEW  years  ago,  near  the  sunset  of  an  autumnal  day,  I 
reached  a  populous  town  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi.  An 
accident  to  the  steam-boat,  wherein  I  had  embarked,  and  by  which 
many  lives  were  lost  through  the  carelessness  of  an  ignorant  and 
drunken  engineer,  had  compelled  the  directors  of  the  boat  to  stop 
with  the  remaining  company,  and  repair  the  damages  that  had 
occurred. 

Alas  !  there  were  damages  and  evils  on  board  that  unpretend 
ing  craft,  which  were  beyond  the  reach  of  mechanist  or  chirur- 
geon.  The  dead  were  strewing  the  deck  ;  fragments  of  the 
boiler,  and  broken  wheels,  were  lying  around ;  and  masses  of 
soot  and  cinders  from  the  unclean  pipes  blackened  the  deck. 
On  every  side  were  corpses,  and  wailing  friends,  and  tearful  eyes. 
A  few  settees  had  been  brought  up  from  the  cabin,  and  on  the 
mattresses  with  which  they  were  covered,  the  dead  were  laid.  It 
was  an  awful  scene.  Two  hours  before,  all  was  well ;  and  every 
heart  seemed  bounding  with  the  rapid  impulse  of  life  and  hope. 
I  myself  escaped  by  a  miracle.  I  was  seated  at  the  stern  of  the 
boat,  near  the  end  window  of  the  cabin,  over  the  rudder,  watch 
ing,  as  is  my  wont,  to  see  the  turbulent  waters  boil  around  the 
keel,  and  mark  the  landscape  flit  by  and  recede.  A  noise  like 
an  earthquake,  which  made  the  shuddering  boat  recoil  many 
yards  ;  a  rush  of  hot  steam  through  the  broken  windows  ;  the  hiss 
ing  of  the  pieces  from  the  boiler,  as  they  dropped  into  the  river ; 
and  after  one  sad  pause  of  an  instant,  the  shrieks  and  groans  of 
the  dead  and  dying,  and  the  surviving  mourners ;  these  were  the 
signs  which  betokened  the  appalling  disaster,  and  convinced  me 
visibly,  for  the  first  time,  what  a  vast  amount  of  pain  and  misery 
can  be  crowded  into  a  passing  moment. 

It  is  a  sight  of  horror  to  behold  the  strong  man  smitten  down 
in  his  might ;  to  see  the  pride  of  womanhood  defaced  and  blighted 


THE    SNAKE    EATER.  351 

by  sudden  death  ;  to  hear  the  lamentations  of  grief  and  despair, 
where  but  a  little  time  before  were  heard  the  light  laugh  of 
pleasure,  and  the  tones  of  delight.  How  distant  was  the  thought 
of  harm,  from  each  and  all !  Truly  it  is  said  by  the  great  bard 
of  nature,  '  We  know  what  we  are,  but  not  what  we  shall  be.' 
We  weave  the  garlands  of  joy,  even  by  the  precipice  of  death  ; 
we  disport  in  the  sunbeam,  unmindful  of  the  storm  that  is  boom 
ing  afar,  and  will  soon  be  at  hand  ! 

The  sun  descended  as  we  entered  the  town,  which  was  situated 
on  ascending  grounds  near  the  river.  A  swell  of  upland,  over 
looking  near  at  hand  a  few  patches  of  green,  which  I  took  to  be 
cotton  fields,  and  which  apparently  commanded  an  extended 
view  of  the  shores  and  course  of  the  great  Father  of  Rivers, 
stretched  rearward  from  the  place.  Overcome  with  excitement 
and  gratitude  for  my  deliverance,  and  seeing  also  that  there 
had  thronged  to  the  wharf  a  large  number  of  citizens,  sufficient 
for  every  purpose  of  charitable  assistance  toward  the  sufferers, 
and  the  dead  on  board  of  the  steam-boat,  I  selected  that  portion  of 
my  luggage  which  had  not  been  destroyed,  and  after  seeking  an 
hotel,  made  the  best  of  my  way  to  the  upland  of  which  I  have 
spoken.  I  felt  like  one  snatched  from  the  grave  ;  and  deeply 
impressed  with  the  sense  of  the  danger  from  which  I  had  escaped, 
through  the  watchfulness  of  a  benignant  Providence,  I  determined 
to  seek  some  haunt  of  retirement,  and  quiet  my  agitated  spirits 
with  thankful  meditation. 

When  I  gained  the  eminence,  I  found  that  the  view  was  cal 
culated  to  heighten  and  expand  all  the  feelings  with  which  my 
heart  was  surcharged,  to  the  overflow.  A  few  gorgeous  clouds, 
bedight  in  crimson  and  purple,  were  sailing  in  glory  along  the 
melancholy  west ;  dark  cypresses,  hung  to  their  tops  with  trailing 
clusters  of  wild  vine,  colored  with  mingled  violet,  amber,  and 
emerald,  stood  in  relief  before  the  horizon ;  while  afar,  on  either 
hand,  the  great  Mississippi  was  seen  rolling  along  with  a  kind  of 
quivering  radiance,  and  exhibiting,  even  at  that  distance,  the  tur 
bulent  might,  which  makes  it  seem  like  a  prostrate  Niagara.  At 
a  distance,  in  each  extremity  of  the  view,  it  was  lost  in  dark 
woods  and  misty  head-lands ;  an  emblem,  most  striking  at  the 
moment,  of  that  obscurity  which,  like  the  shadow-curtain  in  the 
vision  of  Mirza,  overhung  the  stream  of  life  and  time,  making  of 
the  Past  a  dream,  and  of  the  Future  a  vast  unknown. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  sensations  which  animate  the 
bosom  of  an  American,  as  he  looks  at  this  running  ocean,  and  the 
long,  long  vale  through  which  it  rolls.  He  gazes  onward  with 
the  eye  of  anticipation  to  the  not  distant  period,  when  that  al~ 


352  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

most  interminable  stretch  of  landscape  shall  become  bright  with 
towns,  and  vocal  with  the  sounds  of  human  industry ;  when  the 
busy  hum  of  scholars  at  their  tasks,  of  artists  at  their  labors,  of 
the  husbandman  folding  his  flocks,  or  garnering  the  rich  treasures 
of  the  harvest,  shall  succeed  the  meanings  of  the  cypress,  and  the 
mingled  bowlings  of  roaming  beasts  of  prey,  and  yet  wilder  In 
dians  ;  when  the  light  of  civilization  and  religion  shall  extend 
over  forests  and  savannahs,  until  the  progress  of  our  people 
through  the  dominions  of  the  receding  Aborigines,  shall  be,  in 
the  expressive  words  of  Scripture,  '  as  the  morning  spread  upon 
the  mountains  :  a  great  people,  and  a  strong ;  of  whom  there 
hath  not  been  ever  the  like,  neither  shall  be  any  more  after  it,  to 
the  years  of  many  generations.' 

As  I  turned  to  survey  the  prospect,  I  saw  at  no  great  distance 
from  the  spot  where  I  stood,  a  white  tent,  or  pavillion,  surmount 
ed  with  a  parti-colored  flag,  which  was  waving  in  the  evening 
breeze,  and  on  which  I  read  the  words,  '  THE  SNAKE  EATER.' 
The  tent  was  open  on  one  side  like  a  door,  before  which  there 
was  a  curtain.  Benches  were  placed  in  an  amphitheatrical  form 
before  the  tent,  which  were  then  filling  with  people.  The  faint 
glimmer  of  an  early  lamp  was  perceivable  behind  the  dark  cur 
tain  ;  and,  moved  with  curiosity,  I  bent  my  steps  toward  the  as 
semblage.  I  paid  the  requisite  sum  to  the  person  who  kept  the 
gate  of  a  picket-fence  which  surrounded  the  amphitheatre,  and 
took  my  seat  among  the  crowd,  in  the  open  air. 

Twilight  had  now  set  in,  and  the  twinkling  of  the  stars  could 
be  seen  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Mississippi,  as  it  moved  in 
noiseless  solemnity  toward  the  ocean.  The  cypresses  assumed 
the  semblance  of  weird  and  ghastly  forms  against  the  sky  ;  and 
the  occasional  sweep  of  a  belated  hawk  from  the  far-off  prairies, 
with  his  dismal  scream,  gave  token  that  the  day  had  died,  and 
that  its  dirge  was  sounding. 

Presently,  at  the  tinkle  of  a  little  bell,  the  curtain  of  the  tent 
was  lifted.  A  young  man  was  seated  at  a  table,  with  a  box  be 
fore  him,  covered  with  glass,  and  apparently  subdivided  into  two 
or  more  drawers.  He  seemed  about  eight-and-twenty  years  of 
age  ;  his  face  was  thin,  and  a  leaden  wanness  overspread  his  fea 
tures  ;  but  his  sunken  eye  had  that  supernatural  brightness  so 
often  seen  in  the  eyes  of  the  consumptive.  His  voice,  though 
faint,  was  musical,  but  interrupted  by  an  occasional  cough ;  and 
as  he  removed  his  cravat,  and  turned  his  wristbands  over  the  cuffs 
of  his  coat,  he  said  : 

'  The  company  has  assembled  to  see  the  Snake  Eater.  If  any 
one  wishes  to  satisfy  himself  with  regard  to  the  reptile  which  I 


THE    SNAKE    EATER.  353 

tim  now  about  to  devour,  in  the  presence  of  you  all,  and  to  re 
store  again  from  my  throat,  alive,  he  will  please  draw  nigh.' 

He  turned  the  closed  cover  of  the  box  over  toward  the  au 
dience,  as  he  made  this  observation,  and  disclosed  to  the  sight  a 
hideous  rattlesnake.  It  was  coiled  ;  and  when  disturbed,  eleva 
ted  it  spiry  head  from  its  circle,  and  while  its  forked  tongue  play 
ed  with  a  rapid  motion,  it  darted  against  the  glass  in  vain  attempts 
to  escape,  while  its  rattles  continued  to  quiver,  with  a  violent  and 
whizzing  sound,  accompanied  by  that  apparent  flattening  of  the 
head,  which  denotes  the  highest  pitch  of  resentment.  Its  dilated 
eye  shot  fire ;  and  the  coarse  scales  on  its  contorted  form  grew 
rugged  in  its  anger. 

After  this  expose,  the  Snake  Eater  placed  the  box  in  its  original 
position.  A  chilly  shudder  ran  through  the  assembly,  when,  af 
ter  turning  his  back  to  the  beholder,  he  bent  his  face  for  a  mo 
ment  at  the  edge  of  one  of  the  drawers,  with  a  kind  of  chuckling 
sound,  and  drew  forth  the  horrid  reptile  with  his  hand.  The 
snake  now  seemed  languid  and  passive,  though  the  rattles  con 
tinued  to  sound.  He  placed  the  head  of  the  venomous  serpent 
to  his  lips  ;  he  opened  his  mouth,  and  the  long  spire  began  to  de 
scend.  It  was  an  appalling  sight  to  see  that  huge  monstrum  hor- 
rendum  making  his  way  into  the  throat  of  a  human  being.  The 
cheeks  of  the  young  man  began  to  dilate,  and  his  complexion  be 
came  a  livid  purple.  His  eyes  seemed  bursting  from  their  sock 
ets  ;  masses  of  foam  gathered  about  his  lips,  and  he  looked  as 
if  in  the  severest  struggles  of  the  last  mortal  agony — as  if  « tast 
ing  of  death.'  Several  of  the  audience  shrieked  with  affright. 

After  apparently  mumbling  and  crunching  his  fearful  meal,  the 
Snake  Eater  again  partially  opened  his  lips,  and  the  forked  tongue 
of  the  reptile  was  seen  playing,  like  threads  of  bright  red  fire,  be 
tween  them.  Presently  it  began  to  emerge.  It  moved  very 
slowly,  as  if  held  back  by  other  serpents  that  had  preceded  it,  in 
the  awful  deglutition  of  its  master.  As  the  long,  loathsome  folds 
hung  from  his  lips,  and  continued  to  extend,  the  features  of  the 
Snake  Eater  assumed  their  wonted  aspect ;  and  in  a  moment,  the 
reptile  had  emerged,  was  re-placed  in  the  box,  and  the  feat  was 
accomplished. 

After  seating  himself  for  a  few  seconds,  to  recover  from  the 
perilous  execution  of  his  task,  the  Snake  Eater  arose  and  ad 
dressed  the  audience.  He  desired  them  to  believe  that  he  had 
wished  not  to  appal,  but  to  surprise  them.  There  was,  he  ac 
knowledged,  an  art  in  what  he  had  done,  but  it  was  a  mysterious 
and  undiscoverable  one.  '  They  call  me  mad,'  he  added,  bit 
terly,  *  and  a  conjurer ;  but  a  conjurer  I  am  none,  and  though  I 

23 


354  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

have  been  mad,  I  am  not  now ;  yet  often  do  I  wish  I  were.  You 
will  denominate  my  calling  one  of  foolish  hazard,  and  perhaps  of 
disgust ;  but  did  you  know  all,  you  would  judge  of  me  better.  I 
thank  you  for  your  attendance ;  and  if  I  have  succeeded  in  sur 
prising  you,  my  aim  has  been  won.' 

The  audience,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  western  feeling,  gave  the 
performer  three  hearty  cheers,  and  retired  with  wonder-stricken 
faces.  I  lingered  behind  until  the  last  had  departed,  and  step 
ped  into  the  tent,  where  the  Snake  Eater  had  drawn  a  few  eatables 
from  his  knapsack,  which  he  was  discussing  with  considerable 
relish.  I  found  him  sociable,  but  sad.  By  degrees,  my  obser 
vations  excited  a  sympathy  in  his  mind  ;  and,  as  we  sat,  toward 
midnight,  in  his  solitary  house  of  canvass,  the  dark  Mississippi 
rolling  below,  the  pale  stars  fretting  the  vault  above,  and  the  far 
West  stretching  in  dimness  around,  he  thus  began : 


THE  SNAKE  EATER  S  STORY. 

*  I  AM  not,  my  friend,  what  you  see  me.  Though  regarded  here 
about  as  one  who  has  dealings  with  '  familiar  spirits  and  wiz 
ards,'  I  aft  only  a  heart-broken  man,  the  child  of  sorrow,  and  al 
most  without  hope.     I  do  not  speak  thus  for  your  sympathy ;  for 
human  sympathy  can  at  best  but  awaken   afresh  the  wells  of 
mournful  tenderness  in  my  breast,  without  pouring  one  ray  of 
sunshine   upon  the   troubled  fountains  ;  they   must  flow  on   in 
darkness,  without  a  prospect  of  day.     Listen  to  me. 

*  Eight  short  years  ago,  with  the  spirit  of  adventure  stirring 
within  me,  I  came  as  it  were  directly  from  the  walls  of  a  univer 
sity,  in  one  of  the  Atlantic  states,  to  this  '  far  country.'      I  came 
with  prodigal  endowments  from  my  father  ;  and  seeking  the  then 
frontiers  of  civilization,  embarked  in  trade  with  settlers  and  In 
dians.     I  bought  furs  and  sold  all  kinds  of  mercantile  riches.     I 
prospered ;  my  capital  re-doubled  itself,  and  in  all  respects  was 
prosperous.     You  may  perhaps  desire  to  know  my  motive  for 
thus  leaving  the  charms  of  society,  and  seeking  the  seclusion  of 
the  wilderness.     It  was  the  strongest  of  motives,  human  affection. 
An  uncle  had  preceded  me.     He  had  a  ward,  to  whom  I  had 
been  deeply  and  devotedly  attached  from  my  childhood.     She 
was  the  paragon  of  her  sex.     I  speak  not  as  a  rhapsodist,  or  with 
enthusiasm  ;    for  the   loveliest  being  that  ever  came  from  the 
hands  of  God    into  this  lower  world  could   not  excel  her  for 
beauty.     She  made  that  beauty  perfect,  by  the  graces  of  a  mind, 
pure  and  clear  as  the  forming  diamond.     Her  voice  was  melody ; 
her  smile  a  burst  of  living  and  pearly  light ;  and  her  calm  blue 


THE    SNAKE    EATER.  355 

eyes  were  the  sweet  expositors  of  a  sinless  affection.  The  young 
peach,  when  the  airs  and  beams  of  summer  have  awakened  its 
ripening  blushes,  or  the  pomegranate,  as  it  glows  among  leaves 
that  tremble  to  the  rich  chant  of  the  nightingale,  surpassed  not 
her  cheeks,  for  bloom  or  loveliness,  when  her  fair  hair  was  divi 
ded  on  her  brow,  and  fell  in  masses  of  waving  and  silken  gold 
around  them.  Truly,  I  loved  her  with  my  whole  soul.  She  was 
my  idol ;  my  cynosure ;  the  centre  of  every  desire,  and  the  ob 
ject  of  every  aspiration. 

*  We  were  married.     Time  went  on,  and  brought  me  a  bud 
from  the  rose  that  I  had  established  in  my  green  bower  of  home. 
We  were  blest  indeed.     Aloof  from  society,  though  we  missed  a 
few  of  its  luxuries,  we  suffered  none  of  its  vexatious  and  demor 
alizing  corruptions.      On   Sabbath  days,  we  rode  many  miles 
through  the  wilderness,  to  worship  our  Maker  in  his  sanctuary, 
and  hear  the  word  of  life  from  the  lips  of  those  who  journeyed 
through  the  forest  on  missionary  enterprises,  and  for  the  edifica 
tion  of  the  believing ;  ambassadors  from  a  court,  of  which  the 
most  noble  court  on  earth  affords  not  the  faintest  emblem. 

I  On  the  day  that  our  dear  little  Sarah  attained  her  second 
year,  she  was  seated  by  my  counter,  and  her  mother  was  stand 
ing   by,  when  three  fierce-looking   Indians   entered  the  store. 
They  had  evidently  travelled  a  long  way,  for  their  leggins  were 
torn  and  dirty,  and  their  feet  were  almost  bare.     I  recognised 
one  of  them  instantly,  as  The  Crouching  Wolf,  a  desperate  being, 
who  hung  alternately  around  the  skirts  of  the  settlements,  begging 
for  rum,  or  getting  it  in  barter  for  small  peltry,  which  he  obtained 
in  the  chase.     Just  one  year  before,  he  had  visited  me  for  the 
purpose  of  procuring  the  fire-water,  or  ardent  spirit.     I  refused 
him,  and  he  left  me  with  a  vow  of  future  vengeance. 

{<Hoogh!'  said  he,  as  he  reeled  up,  with  his  gruff-looking 
companions,  toward  the  counter,,  where  my  child  was  playing, 
and  my  wife  stood :  '  The  Crouching  Wolf  said  he  would  come 
back.  He  wants  the  talking  water;  he  wants  that  or — revenge. 
He  will  have  one!1 

I 1  tried  to  reason  with  him,  but  he  was  deaf  to  reason.     He 
had  already  tasted  from  the  flagon  of  one  of  his  red  comrades> 
and  the  fumes  were  in  his  brain. 

*  'Come,  medicine-man,  the  Wolf  wants  the  fire-milk.    W'here 
is  it  ?     He  can  not  wait.     His  spirit  is  up,  and  his  forehead  is 
warm.' 

1 1  saw  he  grew  desperate,  but  my  resolution  was  fixed :  I 
sternly  denied  him.  It  was  a  fatal  denial. 

*  He  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  growled  some  gututral  senten- 


356  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

ces  to  his  companions,  and  the  three  then  advanced  toward  my 
child.  I  was  motionless,  and  paralyzed  with  terror.  As  the 
Wolf  approached  my  daughter,  he  drew  a  tomahawk  from  his 
belt,  and  flourished  it  on  high.  I  sprang  toward  him,  but  was 
pushed  back  by  his  companions.  The  dear  innocent,  unafFright- 
ed,  smiled  in  the  face  of  the  Crouching  Wolf,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  the  cheerful  purity  of  her  look  stayed  his  vengeful  arm.  He 
paused,  until  a  scream  from  the  mother  aroused  the  terror  of  her 
first-born.  She  shrunk  back  from  the  relentless  savage,  while 
her  mother  was  kept,  like  myself,  at  bay,  and  while  her  sweet  red 
lip,  chiselled  like  her  mother's,  was  quivering  with  dismay,  she 
said  in  childish  simplicity  : 

1 '  Naughty  Indian ;  if  he  hurts  Sarah,  ma  will  be  angry,  and 
punish  him.'  As  she  said  this,  she  burst  into  tears — her  last  for 
ever ! 

*  In  an  instant,  the  trenchant  weapon  of  the  infuriated  Indian 
clove  in  sunder  the  head  of  my  babe  ;  in  the  next,  his  excited 
comrades  had  murdered  the  wife  of  my  bosom.     I  have  an  in 
distinct  and  horrid  remembrance  of  my  burning  store ;  the  red 
fiends  yelling  over  the  consuming  roof  and  walls ;  my  escape  to 
the  forest ;  the  rest  was  but  silence  and  oblivion.     I  was  a  mad 
man  ! 

'  Ten  months  after,  I  found  myself  in  New-Orleans.  I  had 
reached  the  city,  no  one  knew  how ;  had  been  conveyed  to  a 
hospital,  kindly  treated,  and  discharged  as  cured  ;  but  an  out 
cast  and  a  beggar.  Misfortunes  seldom  come  singly.  My  father 
had  died  ;  and  as  I  had  already  received  my  share  of  his  estate, 
the  residue  melted  away  among  a  host  of  brothers.  My  inherit 
ance  had  been  destroyed  by  the  Indians.  I  was  without  a  home 
or  a  friend. 

'  How  I  subsisted,  I  scarcely  know.  At  last,  as  I  was  one 
day  walking  on  the  levee,  I  saw  a  group  collected  around  an  In 
dian,  who  was  performing  certain  tricks  from  a  box,  with  a  rat 
tlesnake.  It  was  the  Crouching  Wolf. 

' «  The  murderer  of  my  wife  and  child  !'  I  exclaimed,  as  I  pen 
etrated  through  the  ring,  and  with  one  huge  blow  felled  the  vile 
monster  to  the  earth.  I  seized  him  by  the  throat ;  I  placed  my 
knee  upon  his  breast.  In  a  few  moments,  he  was  a  distorted  and 
ghastly  corpse  beneath  my  feet. 

*  My  award  of  retribution  was  considered  just,  and  no  effort 
was  made  to  arrest  me.     Availing  myself  of  the  box  belonging  to 
the  Crouching  Wolf,  which  I  contended  was  mine  as  a  debt,  I 
soon  learnt  the  mystery  of  his  art,  as  it  were  by  intuition.     The 
upper  drawer  of  the  box  contained  the  real  rattlesnake  ;  the  other, 


THE    SNAKE    EATER.  357 

merely  the  skin  of  one,  which  could  be  inflated  by  the  breath,  at 
will.  The  motion  of  the  tongue,  which  was  dried,  and  had 
wires  within,  was  produced  by  loadstone ;  the  movement  of  the 
rattles  by  the  same  cause.* 

'  Filled  from  the  lungs,  it  could  readily  be  taken  into  the 
mouth,  and  compressed  into  a  very  small  compass,  and  while  re- 
passing  outward,  inflated  again.  I  bought  a  new  snake  from  a 
museum,  which  I  killed,  and  prepared  according  to  the  model 
before  me.  I  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  even  using  the 
same  instruments  formerly  employed  by  the  destroyer  of  all 
that  I  most  loved  on  earth,  and  I  turned  from  his  trickery  with  a 
feeling  of  almost  positive  loathing.  A  little  practice  made  me 
an  adept  in  the  mystery  of  snake-eating,  and  I  have  since  wan 
dered  in  loneliness  from  town  to  town,  attempting  this  curious 
enterprise.  My  pecuniary  success  has  been  sufficient  for  my 
comfort  and  convenience,  and  the  danger  of  the  feat  is  only  in 
appearance.  With  a  slight  exertion,  I  can  resolve  my  face  into 
the  colors  and  contortions  you  witnessed  this  evening,  and  which 
heighten  the  interest  of  the  spectacle. t  But  these  things  can 
only  temporarily  divert  my  thoughts,  for  I  carry  within  my  heart 
an  aching  fever,  which  no  prosperity  can  allay  or  remove.  The 
objects  that  have  cheered  me,  can  cheer  me  no  more.  I  stand 
alone  in  this  wilderness  world ;  a  mourner  and  a  pilgrim.  My 
visions  are  of  my  wife  and  child ;  my  day  dreams  are  of  them ; 
but  I  must  suffer  as  you  see,  until  I  meet  them  in  that  better 
country,  where  the  sun  descends  not,  and  darkness  is  unknown  ; 
where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 
I  can  forget  my  child — for  her  existence  seems  to  me  like  a 
misty  trance  —  in  the  fond  assurance  that  the  sparkling  dew-drop 
has  exhaled  to  heaven  ;  but  for  the  cherished  rose  that  sustained 
it,  I  cease  not  to  grieve.  Alas,  for  the  wife  of  my  bosom  !  Well 
can  I  say,  with  one  who,  perhaps,  has  loved  and  mourned  like 

me : 

'  ALAS,  for  the  clod  that  is  resting  now, 
On  those  slumbering  eyes — on  that  faded  brow! 
Wo  for  the  cheek  that  has  ceased  to  bloom, 
For  the  lips  that  are  dumb  in  the  noisome  tomb  : 

*  THE  writer  has  now  in  his  possession  a  curiosity  from  the  far  West,  in  the 
shape  of  a  large  prairie-beetle,  which  is  composed,  among  other  ingredients,  of  paper 
and  wood.  At  the  end  of  every  claw  and  feeler,  where  they  are  attached  to  the 
body,  are  small  bits  of  lead,  impregnated  with  loadstone.  This  lifeless  imitation 
performs  all  the  movements  of  the  actual  beetle ;  moves,  and  extends  its  limbs,  pre 
cisely  like  nature.  It  would  puzzle  the  profoundest  entomologist,  on  a  common 
examination, « to  wotte  whether  that  it  livedde  or  was  dede.s 

f  THIS  « power  of  face'  is  not  unusual  among  the  dramatic  fraternity.  The  cel 
ebrated  tragedian,  BOOTH,  can  easily  flush  his  face  with  the  deepest  suffusion  of 
guilt  or  anger,  and  at  the  next  moment  cause  it  to  bear  the  livid  hue  of  death. 
This  power  often  adds  a  tremendous  effect  to  his  personations. 


358  PROSE     MISCELLANIES. 

Their  melody  broken,  their  fragrance  gone  — 
Their  aspect  cold  as  the  Parian  stone  : 
Alas  !  for  the  hopes  that  with  thee  have  died— 
Oh,  loved  one!  would  I  were  by  thy  side! 

«  Yet  the  'joy  of  grief  it  is  mine  to  bear: 
I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  twilight  air ; 
Thy  smile  of  sweetness  untold  I  see, 
When  the  visions  of  evening  are  borne  to  me ; 
Thy  kiss  on  my  dreaming  lip  is  warm, 
My  arm  embraceth  thy  yielding  form  : 
Then  I  wake  in  a  world  that  is  sad  and  drear, 
To  feel  in  my  bosom  —  thou  art  not  here!" 

THE  morning  had  already  began  to  fire  the  eastern  horizon, 
beyond  the  distant  wilderness,  and  to  sparkle  on  the  river,  when 
I  parted  with  the  Snake  Eater,  and  pursued  my  journey.  On 
my  return  from  the  great  metropolis  of  the  Mississippi,  I  found 
that  he  had  died,  and  gone  to  rejoin  the  lost  treasures  of  his  af 
fection,  in  a  clime  where  Sorrow  has  no  residence,  and  where 
neither  reptile  nor  poison  can  enter. 


DRAMATIC    ALTERATIONS.  359 


DRAMATIC    ALTERATIONS. 

*  Tempora  mutantur,  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis?  is  a  saw  of  all 
earthly  saws  the  tritest,  yet  it  strikes  pat  upon  the  Drama.  How 
has  that  *  department  of  the  fine  arts'  varied  and  turned,  like  an 
anxious  politician,  until  you  can  discern  neither  the  ancient  co 
herence  of  its  comely  parts,  nor  its  present  estate  !  Divine  Shaks- 
peare  !  couldst  thou  now  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  how 
would  thy  fine  taste  be  outraged,  and  thy  noble  spirit  grieved, 
by  the  perceiving  flashes  of  inspiration,  which  centuries  agone 
issued  from  thy  luminous  mind,  now  dimmed  by  modern  play 
wrights,  and  diluted  into  weak  flickerings  of  sentiment !  How 
would  it  vex  thy  poor  ghost !  Verily,  the  dramatic  abominations 
of  the  day  might  create  a  soul  of  anger  under  the  ribs  of  Death. 

Take,  for  example,  the  play  of  Richard  III.  When  the  bard 
of  Avon  made  that  '  pityful  tragedie,'  he  adhered  religiously  to 
historical  facts.  The  language  of  all  the  interlocutors  was  char 
acteristic  and  consistent.  Look  at  that  tragedy  now-a-days. 
Speeches  '  like  vermin  on  the  lion's  crest,'  have  been  introduced 
as  clap-traps,  which  show  a  foolish  ambition  in  the  fool  that  made 
and  the  zanies  who  use  them ;  history  is  distorted — the  poet  is 
mangled. 

The  task  would  be  quite  too  tedious  to  point  out  all  the  errors 
which  the  march  of  histrionic  improvement  has  engrafted  like 
cankerous  buds  upon  one  of  the  noblest  intellectual  trees  of 
Shakspeare's  rearing.  In  many  instances  the  subordinates  of  the 
bloody  play  are  omitted  altogether ;  and,  as  in  the  case  of  Tyr 
rell  and  the  young  princes,  the  mere  instigators  of  the  murder 
are  made  actors  in  it.  Most  people,  listening  to  the  present  per 
formance  of  Richard  III.,  would  be  led  to  infer,  at  least,  from 
the  modernized  text,  that  Tyrrell  himself  was  the  person  who  in 
the  night-time  flung  the  princely  corpses  down  the  Thames.  We 
miss  the  passage  where  the  sanguinary  and  ambitious  baronet  so 
liloquizes  respecting  '  Dighton  and  Forest  whom  he  did  suborn,' 
to  do  the  deed,  and  who  it  is  conclusively  known,  were  its  dia 
bolical  perpetrators.  That  the  young  nephews  were  thrown  into 
the  river,  is  a  very  general  though  erroneous  impression.  His 
tory,  as  we  shall  see,  buries  them  in  the  tower. 

With  perhaps  the  majority  of  play-goers,  the  Drama  usurps 
the  province,  and  supplies  the  teachings  of  history.  It  embalms, 
for  posterity,  the  floating  facts  of  the  olden  time  ;  and  those 
heroes  have  a  small  chance  for  posthumous  fame  who  do  not  exe- 


360  PROSE     MISCELLANIES* 

cute  some  act  in  their  lives  that  is  peculiarly  stage-effectual ,  and 
may  be  in  some  way  perpetuated  by  plays.  Thus  the  great 
Winkelreid  of  Switzerland,  in  contrast  with  William  Tell,  is 
comparatively  unknown.  How  important  is  it  then  in  all  dram 
atic  efforts,  such  as  those  of  the  immortal  Shakspeare,  that  the 
truths  of  history  should  never  be  stretched  nor  polluted ' 

There  is  an  eloquent  passage  in  Richard  III.  ;  the  soliloquy 
of  the  monarch,  on  the  evening  before  the  battle  of  Bos  worth 
Field.  Its  intrinsic  beauty  makes  it  acceptable  any  where,  but 
its  utterance  by  Richard,  under  the  circumstances,  is  rather  out 
of  place.  It  was  originally  a  part  of  a  chorus,  with  which  many 
of  the  prominent  acts  of  Shakspeare's  plays  were  at  first  intror 
duced,  in  imitation  of  the  Greek  tragedies.  The  speech  of  King 
Henry,  also,  on  receiving  news  of  his  son's  death,  does  not  be 
long  at  all  to  Richard.  It  is  from  one  of  the  Henrys. 

How  many  play-goers  have  shouted  and  clapped  their  hands, 
pitlings,  boxites,  and  all,  when  the  crook-backed  tyrant,  on  hear 
ing  of  the  capture  of  his  enemy,  exclaims  : 

*  Off  with  his  head !     So  much  for  Buckingham  !' 

and  what  hearer  of  taste  has  not  deemed  the  expression  incon 
gruous  and  abrupt  ?  It  is  enough  to  say  that  it  is  none  of  Shaks^ 
peare's.  The  self-approving  Mr.  Tate,  who  introduced  it,  is  the 
putative  father  of  the  barbarism.  So  also  the  dying  speech  of 
Gloster,  '  Perdition  catch  thy  soul,'  etc.,  is  an  addition  by  some 
other  mind,  and  though  smooth  and  forcible,  is  not  like  Shaks 
peare. 

Perhaps  many  of  the  readers  of  the  KNICKERBOCKER  are  un 
acquainted  with  the  contemporaneous  history  of  the  bloody  Glos 
ter,  and  therefore  they  cannot  object  to  hearing  him  spoken  of 
by  an  ancient  and  most  veritable  chronicler,  who  lived  not  long 
after  the  tyrant's  time.  Rare  and  curious  indeed  is  that  black- 
letter  tome,  *  Ye  Cronikels  of  lohn  Stovve,'  wherefrom  the  follow*- 
ing  quaint  but  right  credible  historic  hath  been  taken. 

'On  ye  4cth  of  Inly,  Richard  iij.  hee  came  to  the  Tower  by 
water  with  his  wiffe,  and  made  14  knightes  of  ye  bath.'  During 
that  moneth  he  had  numerous  victims  arrested  as  rebels,  among 
whom  was  one  John  Smith  (the  name  was  extant  even  then)  ; 
and  all  of  whom  he  charged  with  a  design  to  fire  the  city  of  Lon 
don,  so  that  while  it  was  burning  they  might  rescue  Prince  Ed 
ward  and  his  brother  the  Duke  of  York,  out  of  the  tower: 

*  Now,'  says  the  honest  Stowe,  *  there  fel  myscheeves  thick ;  and  as  the 
thing  euil  gotten,  is  neuer  wel  kepit,  thorough  all  Richard's  tyme  neuer 
ceased  there  cruell  deths  and  slawters  till  his  own  destruction  ended  them. 


DRAMATIC     ALTERATIONS.  361 

But  as  he  finished  his  time  with  the  best  deth  and  the  most  righteous,  that 
is  to  wit  with  his  owne,  so  he  began  with  the  most  pityous  and  wicked  —  I 
meene  the  lamentible  murther  of  his  innocent  nevues,  the  young  king  and 
his  tender  brother,  whose  death  and  finall  infortune  hath  natheless  comen 
so  far  in  question  that  some  did  remain  in  dovt  whether  they  were  destroyed 
in  his  daies  or  no.  But  I  shall  rehearse  you  the  dolorous  death  of  these 
babes,  not  after  every  way  that  I  have  heard,  but  by  such  men  and  by  such 
means  as  methinketh  it  were  hard  but  it  should  be  true.' 

Richard  knew  that  while  his  nephews  lived,  he  could  have  no 
right  to  the  realm,  and  that  therefore  their  death  must  ensue. 
Shakspeare  has  nobly  expressed  this  in  Gloster's  famous  solilo 
quy.  The  manner  in  which  he  effected  this,  is  succinctly  re 
corded  by  Stowe.  He  tried  at  first,  through  his  special  and 
trustworthy  servant,  John  Greene,  to  prevail  on  Sir  Robert  Brak- 
enbry,  constable  of  the  Tower,  to  attempt  the  murder,  which  that 
functionary  flatly  declined.  Greene  returned  with  his  answer  to 
Richard,  who  was  then  at  Warwick : 

*  Secretly  displeased,  Richard  said,  on  the   same   night  to   his  secret 
page,  «  Ah,  whom  shall  a  man  trust  ?     Those  that  I  have  broughten  up  my 
self,  those  that  I  had  weened  would  most  surely  serve  me,  even  these  fail 
me,  and  at  rny  commandment  would  doe  nothing  for  me.'     '  Sir,  (quoth  the 
page,)  there  lieth  one  on  your  pallet  without,  that  I  dare  well  say  to  do 
your  grace's  pleasure  the  thing  were  right  hard  that  he  would  refuse,'  mean 
ing  by  this  Sir  James  Tyrrell,  which  was  a  man  of  right  goodly  personage ; 
(modern  playwrights  make  him  a  ruffian)  and  for  nature's  gifts  worthie  to 
haue  serued  a  much  better  prince,  if  he  had  served  God,  and  by  grace  ob 
tained  so  much  truth  and  good  will,  as  he  had  strength  and  wit.     This  man 
had  an  high  heart,  and  sore  longed  upward,  not  rising  yet  so  fast  as  he  had 
hoped,  being  hindered  and  kept  under  by  ye  meanes  of  Sir  Richard  Rat- 
cliffe  and  Sir  William  Catesby,  which  longed  for  ne  moe  partners  of  the 
prince's  favor.     Richard  tooke  this  time  to  put  him  foreward,  and  by  such 
wise  to  doo  him  good,  that  all  the  enemies  he  had  except  the  diuel,  could 
never  had  done  him  so  much. 

*  Upon  hearing  his  page's  wordes,  Kynge  Richard  arose,  (for  in  this  com 
munication  he  had  been  sitting  at  the  draught  —  convenient  carpet  for  such 
a  council,)  and  came  out  into  a  pallet  chamber,  in  which  he  found  Sir 
lames  and  Sir  Thomas  Tirels,  of  persons  like  and  brethren  of  bloud,  but 
nothing  of  kin  in  conditions.     Then  said  ye   Kynge  merrily  vnto  them: 
*  What,  Sirs,  are  ye  in  bedde  so  soone  ?'  and  calling  Sir  James,  brake  se 
cretly  to  him  his  minde  in  this  mischievous  matter,  in  which  he  found  him 
nothing  straunge.     Wherefore  on  the  morrow  he  sent  him  to  Brakenbry, 
with  a  letter  by  which  he  was  commanded  to  deliver  to  Sir  James  all  the 
keyes  of  the  tower  for  one  night,  to  the  end  he  might  there  accomplish  the 
king's  pleasure  in  such  things  as  he  had  given  him  commandment.     After 
the  which  letter  deliuered  and  keyes  receiued,  Sir  lames  appointed  the  next 
night  ensuing  for  to  destroie  them,  deuising  before  and  preparing  ye  meanes. 
When  the  eldest  of  the  young  princes  was  told  that  his  Vncle  would  be 
kynge,  he  was  sore  abashed,  and  sighed  and  said,  'Alas,  I  would  my  Vncle 
would  let  me  haue  my  liffe  yet,  though  I  should  leve  my  Kyngedomme.' 
Thenne  he  that  tolde  him  ye  tale,  used  him  with  good  words,  and  put  him 
in  ye  best  comfort  he  could.     But  forthwith  was  the  prince  and  his  brother 
both  shut  vp    and  all  other  remoued  from  them,  onely  one  called  Black 


362  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

Wille,  or  William  Slaughter  except,  sette  to  serue  them,  and  see  all  sure. 
After  which  time  ye  prince  neuer  tyde  his  pointes  nor  aught  roughte  of 
himself,  but  with  ye  babe  his  brother,  lingred  in  thought  and  great  heaui- 
nesse,  till  his  traitrous  death  deliuered  him  of  that  wretchedness,  for  Sir 
lames  Tirell  deuised  that  they  should  be  murdered  in  their  beds.  To  ye 
execution  whereof  he  appointed  Miles  Forest,  one  of  the  four  that  kept 
them  ;  a  fellow  fleshed  in  murther  aforetime.  To  him  he  ioyned  one  loh. 
Dighton,  his  ovvne  horse-keeper;  a  bigge,  broade,  square,  stronge  knaue. 
*  Then  all  other  being  remoued  from  them,  this  Miles  Forrest  and  lohn 
Dighton  about  midnighte  (ye  sweete  children  lyeing  in  their  beddes)  came 
into  ye  chamber  and  sodainely  lapped  them  up  among  ye  clothes,  and  so  be- 
wrapped  them  and  enstrangled  them,  keeping  down  ye  feather  bed  and  pil- 
lowea  harde  unto  their  mouthes,  that  within  a  while,  smothered  and 
stifled,  their  sweete  breaths  failing,  they  gaue  to  God  their  innocent  souls 
into  the  ioyes  of  Heauen,  leauing  to  the  tormentors  their  bodies  dead  in  ye 
bedde.  Which  after  that  the  wretches  perceiued,  the  first  by  the  struggling 
with  y«  paines  of  death  and  after  long  lying  still  to  be  throughly  dead,  they 
laid  their  bodies  naked  out  upon  the  bed  and  fetched  Sir  lames  to  see  them, 
which  vpon  the  sight  of  them  caused  these  murtherers  to  bury  them  at  the 
stairesfoot,  meetely  deepe  in  y«  grounde  vnder  a  great  hepe  of  stones.'' 

When  Tyrrell  conveyed  the  news  to  Richard  at  Warwick,  he 
was  overjoyed  at  the  success  of  his  dreadful  and  cruel  plot. 
Several  chroniclers,  Master  Moore,  Stowe,  Howes,  etc.,  assert  the 
tradition  that  Tyrrell  was  knighted  on  the  spot.  But  the  con 
summate  hypocrite,  Richard,  affected  to  be  both  chagrined  and 
indignant  that  the  bodies  were  buried  in  so  vile  a  corner,  because 
1  they  were  kynge's  sonnes,'  and  ought  to  have  been  interred  in 
a  better  tomb.  It  was  said  that  the  bodies  were  afterward  re 
moved  by  Brakenbry,  but  where,  he  never  condescended  to  tell. 
It  is  not  impossible  that  the  skeletons  of  those  unfortunate  princes 
passed  by  discovery  and  reversion,  into  the  hands  of  some  an 
cient  doctor  or  surgeon  !  Who  can  tell  ?  Hamlet  speculated 
at  a  wilder  rate  than  this,  and  yet  with  perfect  plausibility.  He 
proved  by  respectable  ratiocination,  that 

'Imperious  Csesar,  dead,  and  turned  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away.' 

Tyrrell  was  afterward  imprisoned  in  the  Tower  for  treason  against 
King  Henry  the  VII.  There,  both  himself  and  Dighton  were 
examined,  and  confessed  the  murder  of  the  princes  as  above 
written  ;  but  as  touching  the  places  whither  the  '  fair  corpses' 
were  removed,  they  could  impart  no  information. 

A  more  diabolical  event,  if  we  except  the  sad  story  of  the 
Cenci,  can  scarcely  be  found  in  history.  It  seems  to  have  moved 
the  tender  heart  and  aroused  the  warmest  sympathies  of  the 
worthy  Stowe,  who  thus  '  entreateth'  the  subject : 

'In  this  wise,  as  I  haue  learned  of  them  that  much  knew  and  little  cause 
had  to  lye,  were  these  two  princes,  these  innocent,  tender  children,  borne 


DRAMATIC    ALTERATIONS.  363 

of  most  royal  bloude,  brought  up  in  grete  wealth,  likely  long  to  Hue,  rule 
and  rayne  in  ye  relme,  by  traitrous  tyranny  depriued  of  their  estate,  shortly 
shut  vp  in  prisonn,  priuily  slaine  and  murthered  —  their  dainty  bodies  caste 
God  he  wots  where,  by  the  cruell  ambition  of  their  Vnnatural  Vncle  and 
his  dispiteous  tormentors.  Which  things  on  euery  part  well  pondred,  God 
neuer  gaue  this  world  a  notabler  example  neyther  in  what  mischief  work- 
€th  the  enterprise  of  an  hie  heart,  or  finally  what  end  ensueth  such  dispite 
ous  cruelty.  For  to  begin  with  the  ministres,  Miles  Forest  at  Saint  Mar 
tins  rotted  peacemeal  away,  Dighton  indeed  yet  walketh  y«  earth  (he  was  a 
-contemporary  of  Stowe)  in  good  possibility  to  be  hanged  ere  he  die.  But 
Sir  lames  Tyrel  dyed  at  yc,Towre  hill,  beheaded  for  treason;  and  kynge 
Richard  himself  was  slaine  in  ye  the  fielde,*  hacked  and  hewed  of  his  ene 
mies  hands  ;  carried  on  horse-back,  dead ;  his  hair  in  despight  torne  and 
tugged  like  to  a  Carre  Dogg :  and  the  mischefe  that  he  tooke  was  within  less 
than  THREE  yeares  of  y«  mischeves  that  he  did  ;  and  yet  all  the  mean  time 
spent  in  much  paine  and  trouble  outwarde,  much  feare,  anguish,  and  sor 
row  within.  For  I  haue  heard  by  credible  report  of  such  as  were  secrett 
with  his  chamberjaines,  that  after  his  abominable  deed  done,  he  neuer  had 
quiet  in  his  mynde  ;  he  neuer  bedeemed  himself  sure  :  wheneuer  he  went 
abroad  his  eien  whirled  about,  his  body  privily  fenced,  his  hand  euer  vpon 
his  dagger — his  countenance  and  manner  like  one  alwaies  ready  to  strike 
again ;  he  took  ill  rest  a-nights  ;  lay  long  waking  and  musing,  sore  wearied 
with  care  and  watch ;  rather  slumbered  than  slept,  troubled  with  fearful 
dreams :  sometimes  sodainely  started  up  and  leapt  out  of  his  bedde,  to  runne 
about  ye  chamber,  so  was  his  restless  heart  continually  tossed  and  tumbled 
with  the  hideous  impression  and  awful  remembrance  of  his  abominable 
deede.' 

We  marvel  whether  a  better  description  of  what  might  not  in 
aptly  be  termed  an  earthly  hell,  can  be  found  in  all  history,  than 
the  foregoing  portrait  of  Richard,  during  those  three  memorable 
years  in  which  his  plans  of  insatiate  ambition  were  working  to 
their  fulfilment.  In  his  immortal  play,  Shakspeare  has  caught 
the  very  aspect  of  Gloster's  form,  and  exhibited  the  concrete  es 
sence  of  his  foul  spirit.  Tyranny  must  always  be  miserable  to 
its  dispenser  ;  and  a  crown  got  and  maintained  by  blood,  sits  like 
corroding  iron,  not  on  the  brow  alone,  but  on  the  heavy  heart  of 
the  usurper.  Such  were  the  feelings  of  Richard  at  Warwick, 
and  of  Tiberius  at  Capreae  ;  and  such  will  ever  be  the  fate  of 
those  who  rest  wrongfully  in  their  regal  seats,  and  abuse  their 
ill-gotten  prerogatives.  Happily,  in  modern  times,  little  despot 
ism  exists  in  kingly  dominions.  The  people  hold  in  their  hands 
the  balance  of  power,  and  monarchs  themselves  are  accountable 
to  their  subjects. 

*  'AFTER  ye  battel  of  Bosworth  Field,'  says  our  worthy  historian,  cyc  dead  corps 
of  Richard  was  as  shamefully  carried  to  ye  towne  of  Leister,  as  hee  gorgeously  the 
the  day  before  with  pomp  departed  out  of  ye  same  towne ;  for  his  body  was  naked 
to  ye  skinne,  not  so  much  as  one  clout  about  him,  and  he  was  trussed  up  on  horse 
back  behind  a  pursuivant  at  armes  like  a  dogge  or  cafle,  ye  head  and  armes  hang 
ing  on  one  side  of  ye  horse,  and  ye  leggis  vpon  the  other ;  and  all  sprinkeled  with 
myre  and  bloud,  was  brought  to  ye  Gray-Friers  Churche,  within  ye  towne,  and 
there  homely  buried,  when  he  had  rained  three  yeeres,  two  moneths,  and  one  day.' 


364  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 


MUSICAL    INFELICITIES. 

I  WAS  much  pleased  by  the  perusal  of  the  lament  of  one  Old- 
school,  in  a  recent  number  of  the  KNICKERBOCKER  wherein  he 
discoursed  with  true  feeling  and  discretion  upon  the  theme  of 
Music  '  under  the  Reformation.'  True  it  is,  that  we  receive  no 
longer  that  auricular  gratification  from  sweet  and  simple  sounds, 
once  commended  so  delectably  to  our  senses.  The  reason  is 
obvious.  There  is  a  mania  among  our  modern  singers  for  mere 
execution,  which  drives  harmony  and  melody  at  once  into  the 
shade.  I  shall  treat  of  this,  in  connexion  with  others,  as  among 
the  chiefest  of  my  infelicities. 

Naturally,  I  have  tender  ears.  As  recipients  of  the  different 
modulations  of  sound,  they  are  peculiarly  subtile.  My  nervous 
organization  is  delicate ;  and  those  airs  that  melted  into  my  soul, 
and  kindled  up  my  heart  in  my  better  days,  still  charm  those  re 
cesses  of  thought  and  feeling  with  an  influence  truly  magical. 
The  enchantment  of  association  twines  itself  among  the  notes, 
and  awakens  all  the  dreams  of  the  past,  until  the  tear  is  on  my 
eyelid,  and  the  throb  of  remembered  delight  trembling  in  my 
bosom  like  a  reed  shaken  by  the  wind.  I  return  with  the  elastic 
and  visionary  tread  of  memory,  into  that  Happy  Valley  of  Youth, 
where  I  spent  the  sunny  morning  of  my  days.  I  see  the  streams 
sparkling  blue  and  bright  along  the  meadows ;  the  bird  chants 
in  the  wild  wood  ;  the  flocks  are  white  on  the  green  hill-side  ; 
the  herds  are  cropping  the  herbage  in  shady  places,  and  lashing 
the  summer  flies,  murmuring  as  they  sting ;  and,  above  all, 
swells  the  pomp  of  the  unsearchable  sky,  and  '  gorgeous  com 
panies  of  clouds.'  These,  like  the  pictures  of  a  panorama,  ever 
arise  to  my  mental  vision  at  the  sound  of  music,  such  as  I  heard 
in  other  times.  Mornings,  and  sunsets,  and  landscapes  that 
were  dear  to  me  of  old,  throng  around  me.  I  give  up  the  pres 
ent,  and  live  in  the  past. 

But  of  late  these  emotions  are  strangers  to  my  breast,  and  the 
pictures  have  faded  from  my  mind.  I  hear  singers  announce 
and  execute  songs  called  by  the  same  names  as  those  I  used  to 
hear  ;  but  how  different  their  sound  !  New  shakes,  quavers,  and 
variations,  murder  their  sweetness  at  the  very  portals  of  my  ear, 
and  put  all  their  associations  to  flight.  Affectation,  too,  that 
bane  of  good  singing,  has  come  so  much  in  fashion,  that  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  hear  a  simple  song  without  the  modern  emen 
dations.  If  you  do,  it  will  be  from  some  fresh-hearted  creature, 


MUSICAL     INFELICITIES.  365 

with  affections  as  pure  as  the  rose  on  her  cheek,  who  spends  a 
few  winter  weeks  among  friends  or  relations  in  the  city.  Then, 
to  a  guileless  mind,  her  attractions  in  music  are  transcendent, 
and  she  shows  among  the  starched,  affected  demoiselles  of  fash 
ion,  '  like  to  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows.'  I  have  a 

good  friend,  Kate  J ,  who  now  and  then  comes  to  the  city ; 

and  I  hail  her  arrival  as  a  blessing.  She  sings  with  simplicity, 
but  with  correctness  and  good  taste.  She  feels  what  she  sings ; 
and  does  not,  parrot-like,  repeat  the  sonorous  ejaculations  and 
half-musical  intonations,  expressive  of  spurious  sorrow  or  delight, 
taught  by  some  mortally  affected  master.  I  sit  by  her  piano,  and 
in  a  moment  my  spirit  is  wandering  in  the  dominions  of  recollec 
tion,  and  finds  the  things  of  the  present  to  be  but  as  entities  of 
the  twilight,  flitting  unobservedly  around. 

I  have  said  that  affectation  is  now-a-days  the  bane  of  social 
music.  And  so  it  is.  Your  city-bred  Miss,  following  the  teach 
ings  of  her  instructor,  does  not  permit  her  friends  to  hear,  or 
rather  to  understand  more  than  half  the  words  in  a  song.  Some 
of  them  are  butchered  on  her  lips ;  some  of  them  come  forth 
clipped  of  their  proportions  in  such  wise  that  you  know  them  not ; 
others  are  murdered  in  her  thorax.  This  is  not  her  fault,  for 
she  learns  and  sings  '  according  to  the  mode  ;'  therefore  her  ten 
derness  is  affetuoso,  and  her  feeling  second-hand.  If  she  visit  the 
Theatre,  she  will  hear  ladies  and  gentlemen  applauded  to  the 
echo,  who  if  they  read  a  song  with  the  pronunciation  with  which 
they  sung  it,  would  be  hissed  out  of  sight  in  a  moment.  For 
example,  I  have  heard  a  fashionable  female  vocalist,  whose  name 
I  leave  unmentioned,  sing  Black-Eyed  Susan  with  a  pronuncia 
tion  exactly  as  expressed  in  the  stanza  below : 

4  Yole-d'  in  the  Dunes  tha'  vlit  was  moored  — 
Tha'  sydrimures  \va-iving  to  tha'  woind, 
Wen  black-guard  Zeuzin  kirn  on  bo-awd  : 
Say  war  shall  E  me  tr-r-rew  lev  foind  ? 
Tell  me,  e-ye  jovial  Zoilars,  tell  me  e-tr-r-ew — 
Does  e'my  zweet  William  zale  am'eng  e-yer  cr-rew?' 

Now  why  is  it  that  such  errors  are  tolerated  ?  and  that  they  are 
imitated?  The  musical  old  gentleman  in  Salmagundi,  who 
worked  several  summers  in  producing  a  change  in  the  chimes  of 
Trinity  church  bells,  so  that  instead  of  going  di  do  ding  dong, 
they  might  go  ding  dong  do  di,  was  far  better  employed  than  the 
masters  or  the  vocalists  who  inculcate  affectation.  Let  us  have 
sincerity  in  music.  It  is,  of  all  things,  the  sweetest  and  most  ac 
ceptable.  Let  the  ear  have  its  honestly-desired  fruition  of  har 
mony,  and  not  be  mocked  with  the  shadow  of  music  and  feeling, 
when  the  substance  is  wanting. 


366  PROSE    MISCELLANIES 


THE    DUELIST. 

'Thou  takest  a  life  away — 

A  holy,  human  life  —  the  life  GOD  gave  !J 

MILMAN'S  <  FAZIO.' 

A  FEW  months  ago,  in  company  with  a  professional  friend,  I 
visited  a  Lunatic  Asylum,  in  the  neighborhood  of  one  of  our 
most  populous  cities.  It  was  a  mild  autumn  day  ;  of  that  rich 
and  breathing  kind,  which  wears  less  of  earth  than  heaven  ;  when 
the  garniture  of  the  year  displays  a  loveliness  like  the  cheek  of 
Beauty,  tinted  with  the  hectic  of  coming  dissolution,  which  seems 
more  a  herald  of  life  and  promise,  than  of  death  or  decay.  The 
institution  I  have  mentioned,  stood  upon  an  eminence,  surround 
ed  by  groves,  waving  like  a  mass  of  rainbows  in  the  air.  The 
scene  from  its  site  was  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  Blue  moun 
tains  melted  afar  into  the  sky ;  fair  vales  and  bright  rivers  smiled 
and  rolled  between ;  the  city  was  near  at  hand,  with  its  towers 
and  battlements,  '  and  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air ;'  all  was 
delightful,  all  serene.  My  spirit  received  into  its  inmost  depths 
the  harmonizing  influences  of  the  view ;  and  I  could  not  help 
contrasting  the  peaceful  calmness  that  lay  like  a  charm  upon  the 
landscape  around,  with  the  murmurs  of  phrensy  which  reached  my 
ear,  as  I  stood  with  my  friend  at  the  great  door  of  the  asylum, 
waiting,  for  a  moment,  to  enjoy  the  prospect,  before  we  entered. 
Voices  were  heard,  in  various  tone  and  measure,  singing,  talking, 
and  howling,  in  mingled  confusion.  It  was  as  if  Limbo  had 
been  dispeopled,  and  we  were  listening  to  the  wailings  of  its  mis 
erable  inhabitants. 

As  we  entered,  I  was  struck  with  the  regularity  and  order 
which  every  where  prevailed  in  the  appearance  of  the  mansion. 
It  seemed  a  place  where  Reason,  could  it  be  permitted  to  enjoy 
so  sweet  a  retreat  alone,  might  wrap  itself  in  the  mantle  of  undis 
turbed  reflection  ;  where  Love  might  nestle  and  be  delighted ; 
and  from  whence  the  baneful  passions  of  our  nature  might  be  ut 
terly  banished. 

As  we  strayed  along  the  solemn  corridors,  catching  ever  and 
anon  rich  views  of  the  distant  scenery  from  the  windows  and  em 
brasures,  I  could  not  but  admire  the  generosity  which  had 
planned  such  a  Refuge.  It  had  been  very  successful.  The  ex 
ertions  of  its  officers  and  various  superintendents  had  been  so 
well  rewarded,  as  to  give  pleasure  to  every  philanthropist  in  the 
large  community  of  liberal  hearts  to  whom  their  yearly  reports 


THE    DUELIST.  367 

were  submitted.  Blessed,  surely,  of  Heaven,  will  those  be,  who 
thus  bind  up  the  weary  bosoms  that  have  been  pierced  by  the 
bitter  shafts  of  affliction  ;  who  re-unite  the  disjointed  links  of 
memory  and  reason,  and  cause  the  streams  of  thought  to  flow 
with  the  renewal  of  a  fresh  and  healthy  impulse,  through  the 
soul ! 

We  entered  many  of  the  apartments.  Several  contained  fe 
males,  sitting  in  gentle  abstraction,  humming  some  half  forgotten 
song,  and  repeating  in  audible  cadence  the  disordered  images 
that  rose  to  the  mind,  like  the  changeful  hues  of  a  kaleidoscope, 
in  a  thousand  beautiful  but  fantastic  and  momentary  forms. 

At  the  extremity  of  a  wide  gallery,  extending  the  entire  length 
of  the  mansion,  were  two  rooms,  larger  than  any  on  the  same 
floor,  and,  when  the  doors  were  shut,  with  no  communication 
whatever,  even  in  sight,  between  them.  One  was  occupied  by  a 
female,  the  other  by  a  young  gentleman  who  scarcely  seemed 

4  Less  than  Archangel  ruined,  or  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured.' 

He  was  tall,  and  of  an  erect,  manly  form.  He  was  pacing  his 
apartment,  and  separated  from  the  observer,  as  his  door  opened, 
by  a  close  iron  palisade  which  extended  into  the  room  about  a 
foot  from  the  door.  On  one  ankle  was  a  chain  which  clanked 
incessantly,  as  he  strode  to  and  fro  through  the  apartment,  like  a 
lion  in  his  cage.  He  scarcely  deigned  a  look  at  us,  but  wander 
ed  on,  turning  at  regular  intervals,  and  sometimes  pausing  for  a 
moment,  with  flushed  features,  to  place  his  hand  on  his  forehead, 
as  if  to  repress  a  tide  of  swelling  thoughts,  which  seemed  ready 
to  burst  the  boundary  of  the  brain.  His  forehead  was  wide,  but 
not  high.  Around  it  the  dark  hair  hung  in  masses  of  gloomy 
shadow,  or  drooped  in  the  lank  dampness  of  perspiration.  There 
was  an  expression  of  stern  and  implacable  bitterness  about  the 
lip  ;  but  it  was  in  the  eye,  that  the  direful  meanings  of  phrensy 
were  the  most  convincingly  exhibited.  The  pupils  dilated  with 
a  fearful  expression,  while,  now  and  then,  he  would  lengthen  and 
retard  his  pace,  as  if  measuring  a  space  of  ground  accurately 
with  his  tread.  Then  he  would  stand  sidewise,  in  a  soldier's  at 
titude,  and  with  his  eye  fixed  closely  on  some  distant  object,  lift 
his  arm  to  the  level  of  his  breast,  reach  it  strongly  out  from  his 
side,  his  shifting  eye  quickly  following  the  curl  of  his  fore-finger, 
as  if  taking  aim  for  a  pistol  shot.  In  this  position  he  would  re 
main  for  nearly  a  minute,  at  the  end  of  which  his  eye  would 
close  as  if  from  horror  ;  a  shuddering  ran  through  his  limbs,  and 
his  arm  dropped  nervelessly  by  his  side.  Then  he  would  curse, 


368  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

and  weep  such  tears  !      They  seemed  wrung  like  life-blood  from 
the  very  fountain  of  his  heart. 

'  Poor  fellow  !'  said  my  comrade  :  '  three  years  ago,  he  was 
one  of  the  most  attractive  and  promising  youths  I  ever  knew. 
He  was  the  best  scholar  in  his  class  at  college,  for  learning 
seemed  to  come  to  him  without  an  effort.  Energetic  and  ambi 
tious,  but  with  most  unbridled  passions,  he  allowed  nothing  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  his  desires.  He  was  beloved  by  some  for  his 
freedom  of  spirit,  but  condemned  by  the  judicious  for  the  reck 
lessness  of  his  aims.  An  unfortunate  affair  has  brought  him 
hither ;  and  J,  used  as  I  am  to  histories  of  crime  and  sorrow, 
have  never  been  able  to  retain  a  sufficient  mastery  of  my  feel 
ings,  to  relate  his  story  as  I  know  it,  even  to  the  most  intimate 
friend.  When  he  first  reached  the  asylum,  he  was  a  raving 
maniac.  Several  months  passed  by,  and  his  disorder  grew  more 
temperate  and  mild.  There  were  occasions  when  he  would  not 
for  days  utter  an  irrational  word.  He  desired  that  writing  ma 
terials  should  be  allowed  him,  and  he  wrote  many  sheets  closely 
full.  These  he  tied  together  in  the  form  of  a  book,  with  fanciful 
strings  of  blue  and  red  silk,  and  used  almost  daily  to  read  over, 
marking  out,  with  apparent  care,  every  inelegant  or  irrelevant 
word.  Earnest  hopes  were  entertained  of  his  recovery,  at  no 
distant  period,  when  the  admission  of  a  lunatic  lady  into  the  op 
posite  apartment,  and  of  whom  he  caught  a  glimpse  through  his 
open  door  as  she  entered,  drove  him  at  once  into  a  settled  deli 
rium.  In  this  state  he  has  continued  ever  since.  Increasing 
weakness  now  marks  his  disorder ;  his  appetite  has  declined  ; 
fitful  ravings  disturb  his  repose ;  no  drowsy  potion  can  calm  his 
mind ;  and  he  sometimes,  especially  in  summer  nights,  howls 
away  the  doleful  watches,  in  all  the  agony  of  a  doomed  spirit.  A 
few  months,  I  fear,  will  seal  his  destiny.' 

The  conversation  of  my  friend  seemed  to  have  no  effect  upon 
the  prisoner  before  us.  He  appeared  wrapt  up  in  the  thick  dark 
ness  of  his  own  imaginations,  and  gave  none  but  vague  tokens 
that  he  recognised  our  presence.  Indeed,  until  then,  he  had 
scarcely  glanced  in  that  direction.  My  friend  wished  to  try  the 
effect  of  a  new  face  upon  him,  (as  he  had  seen  none  but  himself 
and  a  domestic  attendant  for  several  months,  strict  seclusion 
having  been  advised).  Accordingly,  he  retired  into  the  hall,  and 
with  his  extended  cane,  (himself  unseen,)  rapped  against  the 
threshold,  the  usual  salute. 

The  maniac  turned  his  face  toward  me,  and  started  back  with 
wild  surprise.  *  Why,  sir,'  said  he,  '  have  you  not  been  to  see 
me  before  ?  I  have  been  imprisoned  in  this  cell,  by  order  of 


THE    DUELIST.  369 

Cleostratus,  because  I  refused  to  explain  his  epicycles  before  the 

faculty  at  college.  He  wrote  a  note  to  them ;  Socrates 

signed  it,  Plato  stuck  his  sign-manual  on  it,  and  I  was  expelled ! 
Sir,'  he  continued,  *  they  have  got  Cleopatra  in  the  other  room ; 
and  she  is  trying  to  kill  me  !  Twenty  times  in  a  night,  with  the 
fire  of  a  demon  in  her  eye,  and  the  poisonous  blood  coursing 
over  her  bosom,  does  she  open  that  door  where  you  stand,  and 
let  loose  from  a  box  which  she  got  of  Pandora,  a  swarm  of  asps 
and  scorpions  on  my  floor.  Yes;  you  know  it,  for  at  this  mo 
ment  you  are  scowling  upon  me,  as  if  you  were  leagued  with  her ! 
Fiend  !  What  have  I  done  to  her,  or  you  ?  Where  is  my  friend  ? 
My  friend  —  ha!  ha  !  ha  ! — my  FRIEND?' 

I  trembled  at  his  manner  and  his  words.  He  continued  to  go 
on,  in  language  similar  to  that  I  have  quoted,  uttered  without 
much  connection  or  relevancy,  in  a  voice  hollow  and  sepulchral. 
The  play  of  his  features  was  agonizing  to  behold.  What  can  be 
more  terrible  than  a  mind  in  ruins,  *  like  sweet  bells  jangled  out 
of  tune  ?'  The  stare  of  natural  idiotcy  is  not  so  painful  to  re 
ceive,  because  we  know,  as  we  look  on  the  sufferer,  that  he  has 
never  fallen  from  a  high  estate ;  but  when  we  meet  the  glances 
of  a  disturbed  and  restless  eye.  flashing  with  phrensy,  and  shifting 
every  way,  as  if  tossed  about  by  the  boiling  fervors  of  a  '  heat- 
oppressed  brain  ;'  when  we  remember  that  once,  perhaps  but 
lately,  it  shone  with  the  scintillations  of  wit  and  reason  ;  then  it  is, 
that  we  can  faintly  apprehend  the  inherent  greatness,  and  delicate 
dependencies  of  the  immortal  mind.  It  is  fearful  to  see  the  light 
of  GOD  extinguished  in  the  soul ;  to  behold  it  reduced  to  a  chaos  : 
to  note  the  obscuration  of  a  spark  whose  divine  lustre,  next  to 
the  vast  spheres  of  heaven,  affords  the  most  convincing  proof  of 
an  ever-watchful  and  omnipotent  intelligence  ;  and  assures  us 
that  man  is  indeed  '  but  little  lower  than  the  angels.' 

I  was  so  completely  absorbed  in  contemplating  the  features  and 
movements  of  the  maniac  before  me,  that  I  felt  as  if  spell-bound 
in  a  dream.  Whether  an  influence,  akin  to  sympathy  of  thought 
or  feeling,  is  conveyed  by  a  lunatic  to  his  observer,  I  know  not ; 
but  certain  it  was,  that  every  glance,  shot  from  the  penetrative  eye 
of  the  being  before  me,  awakened  a  new  interest  in  his  behalf. 
He  ceased  speaking,  and  walked  on,  turning  with  heavy  steps, 
and  humming  occasionally  the  faint  notes  of  disremembered  mu 
sic,  that  came  to  his  mind,  half  cheerful,  half  sad ;  the  wrecks, 
perchance,  of  sounds  that  had  melted  and  won  his  heart  in  better 
years.  My  companion  still  continued  to  stand  aloof,  anxious  to 
know  what  the  consequences  of  my  interview  might  be.  Ab 
straction  seemed  to  be  the  maniac's  chief  characteristic.  Bitter 

24 


370  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

memories,  it  was  evident,  were  at  work  in  his  mind.     At  last  he 
stopped  suddenly,  and  said  in  a  deep,  sober  tone : 

*  Do  you  know  that  my  chain  reaches  to  that  corner,  and  that 
desk  ?     It  does,  upon  my  honor.     Yes,  upon  my  honor.     Men 
fight  for  honor,  they  die  for  honor,  they  plunge  themselves  into- 
rivers  of  fire  and  blood  —  for  honor!      Oh  God!   I  have  —  J 
have!' 

Words  cannot  convey  the  desperation  of  his  language,  or  the 
horror  that  sate  upon  his  countenance,  as  he  gave  it  breath.  It 
was  like  the  features  of  the  thunder-scarred  and  dark-browed  spirit, 
in  Milton,  whose  cheek,  blanched  by  tempests  of  dire  hail  from 
the  treasuries  of  the  Almighty,  was  the  throne  of  care. 

Suiting  his  action  to  his  word,  the  prisoner  approached  the 
desk,  and  took  from  it  the  identical  manuscript  which  my  friend 
had  described.  *  I  will  give  this,'  said  he,  '  to  you.  It  is  a  deed 
of  all  my  property.  I  bequeath  it  for  your  benefit.  Now  I  look 
at  you  again,  you  seem  a  friend.'  Here,  without  an  effort,  or 
apparent  emotion,  the  large  tears  came  again  to  his  eye.  He  at 
tempted  to  reach  the  manuscript  to  me,  but  could  not.  Instantly 
he  approached  the  window,  and  grasped  one  of  the  wooden  bars 
which  crossed  it.  With  desperate  energy,  he  drew  it  from  the 
casement,  as  easily  as  Samson  disparted  the  withes  wherewith 
he  was  bound.  Tying  the  colored  strings  to  the  bar,  he  handed 
the  book  to  me,  through  the  grating  which  separated  us  from  each 
other.  I  took  it,  and  thanked  him  for  his  pains.  He  made  me 
no  answer,  but  stood  like  an  image  of  stone.  He  seemed  to  have 
dispossessed  himself  of  a  burden,  and  disposed  for  sleep.  He 
approached  his  pallet  in  the  corner,  and  sank  so  quickly  into 
slumber,  that  it  seemed  like  the  mirnic  sleep  of  an  actor,  in  Rich 
ard  the  Third,  when  the  tyrant  sees  the  ghost  of  the  Plantagenets, 
'  Clarence  and  the  rest,'  rising  around  him.  His  breathing  was 
heavy  and  slow ;  large  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  temples  ;  and 
an  occasional  groan,  as  if  sounding  from  the  heart,  moaned 
through  his  lips. 

*  Now,'  said  my  companion,  *  is  the  time  to  go.  Step  lightly, 
for  the  least  sound  will  waken  him  at  this  hour.' 

As  we  turned  from  his  apartment,  my  friend  moved  a  little 
slide  before  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  door  of  the  opposite  room,  and 
bade  me  look  in.  A  lady  was  sitting  at  the  window,  gazing  out 
ward,  with  a  vacant  eye,  and  kissing  her  hand  at  the  airy  nothings 
of  her  mind.  The  noise  of  the  sliding  panel  attracted  her  no 
tice.  She  glanced  toward  the  door.  The  moment  my  face  was 
recognised,  she  sprang  toward  me.  '  Oh,  Henry,'  she  said,  lare 
you  come  ?  How  long  I  have  waited  for  you !  No,  no,'  she 


THE    DUELIST.  371 

added,  pushing  her  fair  hair  wildly  back  from  her  brow,  *  you 
are  not  Henry  —  no  ;  if  you  were,  you  would  speak  to  me  !' 

I  could  not  speak  to  her.  I  was  overpowered,  bewildered. 
She  was  a  beautiful  being,  seemingly  not  twenty  years  of  age. 
The  ravages  of  sorrow  had  thinned  her  features,  and  saddened 
her  brow  ;  but  her  lips  were  still  feverishly  full  and  red  ;  her  blue 
eye,  still  bright ;  the  hues  of  fading  loveliness,  like  the  reflected 
tints  of  a  damask  rose,  still  lingered  in  her  cheek  ;  and  her  voice  ! 
oh,  how  sweet  and  musical,  did  its  gentle  accents  fall  upon  my 
ear  !  Every  word  bespoke  the  stainless  purity  of  the  spirit  that 
fate  had  steeped  in  ruin. 

I  could  not  bear  the  sight,  and  a  world  could  not  then  have 
compelled  me  to  the  utterance  of  a  word.  1  closed  the  panel, 
with  a  distressful  feeling ;  and  taking  the  arm  of  my  friend,  re 
plied  to  his  attentive  offers,  that  I  would  see  no  more. 

When  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  in  the  city,  I  opened  the 
maniac's  pages.  I  have  deemed  them  of  interest,  and  I  now  give 
them  to  the  reader,  word  for  word  —  a  melancholy  record  of  pas 
sion  and  crime.  

6 1  AM  a  man,  smitten  of  GOD.  I  seize  my  pen  with  a  tremb 
ling  hand,  to  record  some  of  the  events  in  a  life  that  has  not  been 
long,  but  is  yet  wearing  swiftly  to  its  close.  A  world  of  sable 
images  is  arrayed  before  the  prospect  of  my  soul.  I  lift  the  dis 
mal  curtain  of  fate  from  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  and  dis 
cern,  over  its  scenes  of  horror,  the  sun  of  recollection  ;  bloody 
and  wan,  like  that  pale  sphere  which  hung  above  Jerusalem, 
when  the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent  in  sunder ;  when  they  who 
slept  in  their  graves  arose,  called  from  their  cerements  by  the 
moaning  of  thunders  and  earthquakes  on  a  thousand  hills.  The 
beams  of  innocence  have  vanished  for  ever  from  my  mind ;  the 
roses  that  opened  once  around  my  pathway,  are  changed  for  the 
night-shade  and  the  ivy ;  my  feet  have  stumbled  upon  the  dark 
mountains  of  error ;  and  for  the  dews  of  pleasure,  or  the  blooms 
of  hope,  I  inherit  the  vulture  of  regret.  Remorse  and  pain  are 
knawing  at  my  heart ;  and  like  the  fabled  scorpion  in  his  enven 
omed  circle,  I  mingle  at  once  the  poison  of  the  adder,  with  the 
torpor  of  the  worm. 

*  The  misery  of  years  may  be  compressed  into  one  short  page. 
I  shall  be  brief.  What  I  am  now,  I  was  not  always.  As  I  sit 
by  my  window,  and  look  out  from  the  bars  that  hedge  me  in, 
upon  earth  and  sky,  basking  in  that  sunlight  which  but  faintly 
shadows  the  smile  of  the  CREATOR,  I  bethink  me  of  all  the  past. 
My  soul  swells  with  remembrance,  my  heart  with  emotion.  It 


372  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

is  the  hour  of  sunset.  The  great  orb  rolls  slowly  down  ;  he  dips 
behind  the  western  mountains,  and  in  gushes  of  solemn  pomp, 
ethereal  brightness  flows  over  their  blue  outlines,  along  the  land 
scape.  It  is  a  Sabbath  evening — the  month  is  June  :  the  distant 
bells  of  the  city  load  the  fragrant  breeze  with  volumes  of  tender 
melody.  Around,  are  aroma,  and  peace,  and  music,  and  holi 
ness — but  not  with  me. 

« My  testimony  must  be  given.  I  hold  my  uncertain  reason  as 
a  boon  which  a  breath  may  dissolve ;  and  as  its  dawning  day 
continues,  I  must  inscribe  my  record,  before  the  night  shall  come. 
Against  myself,  I  am  to  place  upon  these  pages  a  fearful  witness. 
I  shall  write  as  one  on  whom  the  sleepless  eye  of  Gob  looks 
with  a  discerning  vision.  I  shall  unveil  my  heart.  I  will  bare 
to  the  day  the  corruption  of  its  motives,  and  the  deed  of  horror 
to  which  they  have  led ;  the  thoughts  whereof  have  withered  my 
form,  and  scathed  my  brain,  like  the  blast  of  a  samiel.  I  will 
call  up  from  their  dungeons,  the  wierd  spectres  of  memory.  I 
will  lift  the  mirror  of  truth  before  me,  and  describe  the  hideous 
monster  that  I  behold  therein,  though  the  appalling  reflection 
should  sere  my  eyeballs,  and  make  me  shudder  through  every 
nerve. 

'  I  have  been  a  scholar  and  a  student.  I  have  gone  through 
the  studies  and  trials  allotted  to  those  who  delve  after  knowledge. 
I  have  explored  the  treasures  of  orators,  dramatists,  annalists,  and 
poets.  I  have  bent  over  the  breathing  pages  of  Cicero,  and 
Homer,  and  Virgil ;  of  ^schylus  and  Thucydides,  Tacitus,  and 
Livy.  I  have  quaffed  long  and  deep  at  the  fountains  of  ancient 
lore  ;  but  the  only  spring  that  ever  cheered  me  has  dried  up, 
and  left  for  my  seeking  lip  the  sand  alone. 

'  I  have  loved.  There  lies  the  secret  of  my  torture  and  my 
doom.  At  the  junior  exhibition  of  my  class,  as  I  was  speaking 
before  a  large  and  brilliant  assembly  in  the  University  chapel,  I 
saw,  for  the  first  time,  an  object  that  riveted  my  gaze  and  secured 
my  admiration,  my  affection.  She  was  young,  and  oh,  how  su 
premely  lovely !  I  paused  with  a  sense  of  intoxicating  transport. 
Her  liquid  blue  eyes  met  mine  ;  her  fine  Grecian  features  seem 
ed  lit  with  an  unearthly  intelligence  ;  the  blush  of  innocence  was 
on  her  cheek.  The  periods  of  my  salutatory  dropped  slowly 
from  my  lips ;  I  forgot  my  duties,  my  honors  ;  I  was  '  clothed 
upon  with  love !' 

1  When  the  exercises  of  the  day  were  over,  I  made  enquiries 
after  the  fair  being  who  had  so  moved  me.  She  was  a  partial 
stranger  in  town,  remaining  at  the  dwelling  of  a  relation.  A  year 
previous  she  had  visited  the  city,  and  been  addressed  by  a  class- 


THE    DUELIST.  37$ 

mate  with  whom  my  terms  of  friendship  were  strict  and  intimate. 
He  had  been  accepted  as  her  suitor,  and  the  day  of  their  union 
had  already  been  appointed. 

*  Fired  with  passion,  I  sought  her  acquaintance.     I  met  her 
often ;  and  amidst  the  attractions  of  a  society  not  deficient  in  fe 
male  loveliness,  I  found  her  ever  the  sole  ascendant  star.     GOD! 
how  I  loved  her !     I  waited  upon  her  footsteps,  and  bent  to  her 
beck,  as  one  that  obeys  the  bidding  of  a  celestial  spirit.      Her 
smile  was  the  joy  of  my  heart ;  her  voice  the  richest  music  to 
my  ear.     But  I  wooed  in  vain.     With  a  delicacy,  pure  as  it  was 
engaging,  she  repelled  all  my  advances,  and  I  could  not  but  see 
that  my  friend,  Henry  Rivers,  was  the  choice  of  her  affection. 

1  Rivers  was  indeed  my  friend.  We  had  been  all  in  all  to 
each  other.  But  causes  must  produce  effects,  and  coldness  soon 
sprang  up  between  us.  He  loved  May  Morton  with  a  perfect 
idolatry.  I  was  the  foul  iconoclast,  who  destroyed  both  the  wor 
shipper  and  the  image.  Wo  is  me  ! 

*  My  passion  could  not  be  concealed.     The  pent-up  flame  de 
fied  restraint.    One  balmy  afternoon  in  spring,  I  sought  the  apart 
ment  of  May  Morton.     1  poured  out  my  soul,  in  kisses  and  protes 
tations,  on  the  white,  reluctant  hand  that  thrilled  in  mine.     I  was 
answered  in  tones  of  melody,  whose  fatal  sweetness  haunts  me 
still,  that  my  suit  was  vain.     Rivers  was  her  betrothed — her 
heart  and  hand  were  his  own.     I  heard  no  more.     Pride  spread 
its  burning  color  over  my  cheek.     I  ceased  to  supplicate  ;    I 
bowed,  and  withdrew.    Weeks  passed  over  me,  without  a  knowl 
edge  of  existence.     A  malignant  fever  brought  me  to  the  margin 
of  the  grave  ;  and  the  delirium  of  passion  and  sickness  was  con 
tinually  upon  me. 

*  Months  elapsed  before  I  recovered.      When  I  came  forth 
again,  it  was  only  to  hear  of  the  approaching  marriage  of  my 
rival.     A  few  days  were  to  witness  its  consummation.     In  all 
my  sickness,  Rivers,  forgetting  my  offence,  was  my  devoted  at 
tendant.     He  was  generous  and  noble.     No  office  was  too  ar 
duous  for  his  goodness  ;  and  through  the  watches  of  many  a 
weary  night,  he  kept  his  vigil  by  my  side.     Alas !  how  was  he 
repaid ! 

'As  the  time  drew  nigh  for  the  celebration  of  his  nuptials, 
my  vigor  increased.  I  ate  but  little,  yet  I  seemed  to  subsist 
and  thrive  on  thought.  A  vague  idea  of  some  desperate  deed 
beset  my  soul.  What  it  was  destined  to  be,  I  knew  not ;  but  I 
felt,  inly,  as  if  nerving  myself  for  some  dire  resolve. 

1  How  little  do  we  know  of  our  own  hearts !  During  all  this 
period,  I  could  not  recognise  in  myself  any  hatred  to  Rivers.  I 


374  PROSE     MISCELLANIES. 

thought  him  the  happiest  of  men ;  I  would  have  given  worlds  to 
have  filled  his  place  in  the  affections  of  May  Morton ;  and  be 
cause  she  did,  I  thought  I  too  loved  him.  Fatal  delusion  ! 

4 1  received  an  invitation  to  be  present  at  their  nuptials.  I 
went,  but  with  a  feeling  such  as  I  never  before  experienced.  It 
was  the  elateness  of  a  desperate  mind — the  elevation  which  pre 
cedes  despair. 

*  It  was  a  lovely  evening.     The  guests  were  met,  the  feast  was 
spread.     I  heard  the  voice  of  the  priest ;  I  saw  the  hands  of  the 
betrothed  united  in  eternal  fidelity.     The  room  swam  to  my 
vision  ;  the  smiles  that  met  me  were  repaid  by  glances  of  vacancy 
or  of  fire ;   and  the  wine-cup  passed  my  lips  untasted. 

*  A  dance  ensued.     The  music  breathed  through  the  scented 
apartments,  like  a  heavenly  epithalamium.     Graceful  forms  were 
moving  in  fairy  circles  ;  the  viol  uttered  its  harmonies ;  all  was 
brightness ;  all  delight. 

*  How  it  was,  I  know  not,  that  I  approached  the  happy  pair  as 
they  stood  at  the  head  of  a  cotillon.     '  Pleasant  time,  this,  Mr. 
Rivers,'  said  I,  with  a  bitter  smile,  and  in  a  hollow  voice  ;  '  very 
pleasant — do  n't  you  think  so  ?' 

*  *  Indeed  I  do  ;  the  happiest  of  my  life.     My  sweet  May  be 
side  me,  and  my  own  !     It  is  like  a  dream.' 

*  *  Very  likely,'  I  replied.     l  What  a  pity  it  is  that  so  sweet  a 
dream  should  not  be  enjoyed  by  somebody  who  deserved  it.' 

* '  What  do  you  mean,  Sir  ?'  said  Rivers,  the  generous  mean 
ings  of  his  eye  changing  to  a  look  of  stern  inquiry. 

*  'I  mean,'  I  responded,  with  the  abruptness  of  instant  false 
hood,  which  could  not  be  contradicted  from  the  grave,  *  that  you 
told  young  Everts,  of  our  class,  that  my  Oration  at  the  Junior 
Exhibition  was  written  by  you.     He  is  dead  now,  and  can  not 
say  to  you,  as  I  do,  that  you  are  both  a  liar  and  a  coward.     I 
speak  it  aloud  ;  I  am  heard  by  all  around  me  ;  and  I  leave  you 
to  demand  of  me  that  satisfaction,  current  among  all  honorable 
men,  which  you  will  not  fail  to  receive.' 

*  Rivers  was  thunder-struck.     He  gazed  at  me  with  a  look  of 
mingled  pity  and  surprise.     At  last  he  said  : 

'  *  Charles,  now  I  know  you.  This  is  an  angry,  envious  trick 
of  yours,  and  I  see  the  motive.  But  it  shall  not  avail  you.  You 
shall  be  met,  as  you  desire ;  but  not  to-night.  To  night,  at 
least,'  he  added,  addressing  his  terrified  bride,  with  looks  of  un 
utterable  tenderness,  '  shall  be  devoted  to  rapture  and  to  love. 
Sir,  you  will  hear  from  me  in  the  morning.' 

*  What  were  my  feelings  !     Like  Ithuriel  in  Eden,  I  stood, 
hideous  and  single,  in  the  midst  of  a  scene  of  loveliness.     From 


THE    DUELIST.  375 

bitter  envy  and  unrequited  passion,  I  had  wantonly  falsified  the 
truth,  and  poisoned  the  happiness  of  a  lovely  being,  by  embroil 
ing  in  mortal  combat  the  chosen  companion  of  her  bosom. 

'  I  know  not  how  I  reached  home.  I  slept  as  on  a  bed  of  fire. 
In  the  morning  I  received  a  note  from  Rivers,  which  I  accepted 
without  delay. 

'  That  afternoon  we  met.  The  grey  walls  of  the  University, 
where  we  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours,  shone  through  the 
distant  grove,  as  we  measured  our  deadly  paces.  The  word 
was  waiting  to  be  given ;  the  lengthened  solemn  tread  was  made. 
Rivers  held  his  pistol  as  if  willing  to  use  it  on  an  enemy,  but  not 
on  a  friend.  I  levelled  my  aim  at  his  heart.  I  see  him  still  as 
he  stood  before  me  then ;  the  sunshine  playing  on  his  chestnut 
locks  and  manly  forehead ;  the  look  of  blended  pity  and  con 
sternation  that  his  features  wore.  He  stood  with  the  sublimity 
of  a  good  conscience  beaming  from  his  eye.  As  I  stretched  my 
mortal  weapon  toward  his  bosom,  he  shrank  not.  He  seemed 
to  feel  the  moral  advantage  that  he  possessed  over  me.  A  whirl 
of  giddy  thoughts  rushed  through  my  mind,  but  I  had  no  time 
for  reflection.  Some  fallen  angel  whispered  vengeance  in  my 
ear.  What  had  I  to  avenge  ?  What,  but  an  innocent  and  mu 
tual  love  ? 

'  I  held  my  elevated  pistol  a  shade  higher.  The  word  was 
spoken  by  the  seconds  ;  I  drew  back  my  lock,  and  heard  the 
click  of  Rivers'  simultaneous  with  mine.  I  took  deliberate  aim  ; 
the  burning  flash  warmed  over  my  fingers,  the  report  rang 
through  the  grove.  Rivers  stepped  toward  me  with  extended 
hand ;  his  pistol  exploded  as  it  dropped  from  his  nerveless  grasp ; 
he  brought  his  open  palm  convulsively  to  his  breast ;  he  reeled ; 
he  fell. 

'  I  rushed  to  my  fallen  friend.  The  crimson  blood  was  gush 
ing  from  his  heart,  over  his  bosom ;  the  leaden  hue  of  death  was 
beneath  his  closing  eyes  ;  its  pallor  was  on  his  cheek ;  its  foam 
on  his  lips. 

'  'Oh,  May !'  tye  uttered,  with  an  agonizing  groan  ;  and  then, 
as  if  nerving  himself  to  an  act  of  dreadful  energy,  he  raised  him 
self  partially  up,  and  reaching  forth  his  hand,  exclaimed:  'Charles, 
I  forgive  you!  You  have  killed  me  without  a  cause;  you  will 
break  the  fondest  heart  that  ever  beat  for  man;  but — I  forgive 
you  r 

'  The  blood  now  gathered,  clotty  and  smoking,  on  his  purple 
lips  ;  the  gurgling  sound  of  dissolution  was  in  his  throat ;  and  in 
one  short  moment,  his  life-current  staining  the  green  sward  where 
he  fell,  he  was  among  the  dead.  .  .  M^ 


376  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

'  I  TELL  no  more.  Is  it  for  me  to  describe  the  funeral ;  the 
grief  that  brought  the  widowed  and  distant  mother  of  a  widowed 
bride  to  the  grave  ;  the  distress  that  made  May  Rivers  a  maniac  ? 
Can  I  paint  the  burden  of  remorse  which  at  last,  and  for  a  long, 
dark  period,  dethroned  my  reason?  Shall  I  revert  to  that  hour 
to-day,  when,  an  inmate  of  this  dreary  place,  I  saw  her  whom  I 
once  loved,  as  never  did  a  thing  on  earth,  before  me  ;  her  fair 
locks  and  graceful  vestments  torn  with  the  struggles  of  phrensy  ; 
an  occupant  of  the  same  mad  mansion  ?  No  ;  the  picture  is  too 
dreadful,  even  for  a  mind  that  has  conceived  the  deeds  and  suf 
fered  the  horrors  of  mine.  At  uncertain  moments,  my  brain 
seems  reeling  as  if  a  weight  of  lead  were  pressed  upon  its  cell ; 
ghastly  forms  rise  up  around  me  ;  hands  that  would  incarnadine 
the  ocean,  beckon  to  me  from  the  dark  walls  of  Evening,  and 
funeral  murmurs,  like  the  wul-wullehs  of  the  East,  come  booming: 
from  afar.  Wo  is  me  !  I  am  smitten  of  GOD  !' 

HERE  the  manuscript  of  the  maniac  ended.  It  was  with  a 
melancholy  heart,  a  few  months  after  its  perusal,  that  I  saw,  on> 
a  second  visit  to  the  Asylum,  in  the  green  cemetery  of  the  insti 
tution,  the  graves  of  the  duelist  and  his  hapless  victim.  The 
verdant  mantle  of  Spring  decked  the  earth  where  they  slept,  with 
rich  fertility.  His  monument  was  of  dark,  gloomy  marble ;  but 
the  white,  simple  stone,  which  shone  above  the  tomb  of  fair 
May  Rivers,  stood  like  an  emblem  of  her  stainless  life  and  her 

florified  soul.  She  had  gone  from  earth,  like  the  breath  of  the 
pring-time,  or  the  bloom  from  its  flowers.  The  memorial  that 
rose  above  her  slumbers  was  shaped  like  an  urn.  On  one  side, 
was  sculptured  '  MAY'  —  on  the  other,  *  HOPE.'  What  fitter  de 
vice  could  have  been  made  ?  Let  the  shaft  or  the  cenotaph  be 
lifted  for  the  mind  that  has  gone  to  its  beatitude,  not  for  the  lost 
grace  that  is  wasting,  the  lip  that  is  dumb,  or  the  brow  that  is 
dim  !  In  the  pale  dominions  of  the  dead,  '  that  have  fallen 
asleep  upon  the  bosom  of  the  earth,'  never  again  to  rise  on  mortal 
vision,  to  whom  should  we  build  ?  , 

*  To  Beauty 3     Ah,  no  !     She  forgets 
The  charms  that  she  wielded  before ; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm,  that  he  frets 
The  skin  that  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore, 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tints  which  it  wore.* 


MILITANT    ARIAS.  377 


MILITANT    ARIAS  — BY   AN    AMATEUR. 

NOBODY  is  cynic  or  green-goose  enough  to  deny  that  the  pres 
ent  is  the  age  of  improvement.  Every  thing  seems  to  be  going 
onward  with  a  rapidity,  the  strides  whereof  may  be  likened  unto 
the  tread  of  an  army  with  banners.  All  kinds  of  systems,  social, 
political,  public  and  private,  seem  to  be  better  fixed  than  they 
used  to  be.  To  account  for  these  great  emendations  on  any  com 
mon  hypothesis,  would  be  ridiculous.  Hypotheses  are  remnants 
of  antiquity ;  and  I  believe  the  age  can  yet  be  found  able  to  dis 
pense  with  them  altogether.  The  time  is  not  distant,  I  fancy, 
when  conclusions  will  be  jumped  at  without  argument,  and  when 
Truth  herself  (I  believe  I  have  hit  the  gender  of  that  respect 
able  stranger)  will  come  out  of  the  well  where  her  troglodyte 
limbs  have  so  long  been  cooling,  and  lift  her  mirror  on  high 
to  irradiate  the  benighted  brains  of  every  son  and  daughter  of 
Adam. 

I  say  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  these  grand  emendations  on 
any  common  cause ;  but  I  have  one  to  which  I  refer  them  uni 
formly,  and  it  is  to  my  mind  of  a  very  satisfactory  nature.  Mod 
ern  philosophers  have  discovered  that,  in  the  matter  of  light,  the 
extremities  of  comets  have  scattered  new  substances  into  our  at 
mosphere,  and  that  when  these  eccentric  characters  are  in  peri- 
helio,  their  tails  are  peculiarly  bright  and  flashy.  Now,  my  im 
pression  is,  that  the  light  of  these  comets,  thus  generously  dis 
bursed  from  their  hinder  sides,  in  an  intermittent  diarrhoea  of 
glory,  is  conveyed  by  some  principal  of  induction  to  the  mind 
of  man  ;  that  the  subtile  rays  act  specifically  upon  some  cranio- 
logical  bump  of  his  head,  inclining  him  to  love  music,  poetry, 
politics,  horse-stealing,  or  any  thing  of  the  sort,  according  to  the 
character  of  the  organ  in  which  these  rays  may  settle.  To  some, 
they  convey  high  fiscal  notions  and  a  love  of  locomotion,  as  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  Nazro,  the  classical  teacher^ho  has  such  rapid 
habits  and  extensive  relations,  and  who  charges  $100,000  per 
year,  for  the  finishing  of  a  scholar  in  his  Biblical  Instruction. 
To  my  own  mind,  I  am  sensible  that  there  has  been  conveyed  a 
strong  portion  of  light  on  the  subject  of  musical  adaptation,  and 
my  ears  have  been  acted  upon  to  a  considerable  extent  by  the 
same  principle.  I  never  witness  any  public  amusement  of  late, 
that  I  do  not  begin  to  reflect  on  some  way  in  which  music  might 
be  made  to  help  it  on  ;  and  being  an  ardent  though  blind  admirer 


378  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

of  European  customs,  I  join  in  that  sublime  chase  in  this  science, 
and  in  other  matters  of  about  the  same  importance,  with  which  a 
large  majority  of  my  comet-stricken  fellow-citizens  seem  interest 
ed.  But  to  my  subject. 

I  was  lounging  the  other  day,  on  one  of  the  luxurious  sofas 
of  the  Washington  Divan,  and  sipping  a  cup  of  delicious  coffee, 
and  looking  at  the  fine  paintings  and  various  periodicals  hanging 
and  lying  around,  when  I  took  up  that  elegant  paper,  Bell's  Life 
in  London,  and  straightway  fell  into  a  train  of  deep  reflection,  as 
I  sent  my  eye  up  and  down  its  columns,  upon  the  great  preva 
lence  among  the  gentlemen  of  England,  of  those  lofty  and  digni 
fied  amusements,  so  cheering  to  intelligent  minds,  which  are  yet 
almost  unknown  in  this  country.  I  worked  myself  by  degrees 
into  a  paroxysm  of  high-bred  indignation,  that  our  imitative  gen 
try  had  copied  so  sparingly  from  these  great  transatlantic  exam 
ples,  in  pastimes  so  pleasing  to  humanity  and  healthful  to  the  soul. 
I  had  touched  the  climax  of  my  regret,  when  the  following  adver 
tisement  caught  my  gaze  : 

4  COCKING.  —  A  main  of  cocks  will  take  place  on  Wednesday  the  6th 
inst.,  at  the  Royal  Cockpit,  West  Green,  Tottenham,  for  <£5  the  battle  and 
6650  the  odd,  between  the  gentlemen  of  Middlesex  and  Kent ;  to  fight  in 
silver.  Feeders,  GUMM  and  HAWICK. 

'Three  whole  days'  play  will  be  fought  at  Bristol  on  the  19th  inst.,  and 
the  two  following  days,  between  the  gentlemen  of  Gloucestershire  and  the 
gentlemen  of  Somersetshire,  for  dfilO  the  battle,  and  d£100  the  main.  Feed 
ers,  GRANT,  for  Somersetshire;  BUMM,  for  Leicestershire.' 

As  I  peered  over  this  notice,  a  train  of  luminous  thought, 
rapid  as  the  scintillations  of  a  meteor,  burst  upon  my  mind. 
Why,  said  I  to  myself,  has  not  this  accomplished  sport  of  cock- 
fighting  been  more  extensively  introduced  into  this  meridian  ? 
and  why  should  it  not  be  done  to  music  ?  How  few,  alas  !  how 
very  few  of  the  intelligent  gentlemen  of  this  country  have  ever 
taken  an  interest  in  these  gladiatorial  rencontres  between  exas 
perated  fowls ;  or  reflected  upon  the  admirable  manner  in  which 
their  contests  might  be  associated  with  instrumental  sounds,  and 
their  jumps,  pecks,  and  gaff-kicks,  be  timed  with  crotchet  and 
quaver  !  To  the  honor  of  a  few  remote  Kentuckians,  or  Indiana 
Hoosheroons,  this  eminent  sport  has  found  a  few  advocates  in 
those  distant  quarters  of  our  republic.  Is  it  not  time  that  the 
practice  were  forbidden  to  waste  its  exclusive  elegance  in  the 
haunts  of  rural  life,  and  that  it  were  introduced  into  our  cities  ? 
Should  not  cock-pits  be  built  by  the  sale  of  stock,  and  capacious 
coops  be  laid  in  ?  Should  not  feeders  be  imported,  to  deliver 
lectures  on  the  subject ;  and  ought  there  not  to  be  competent 
composers  engaged,  who  shall  produce  a  series  of  militant  arias. 


MILITANT    ARIAS.  379 

by  means  of  which  the  cocks  could  fight  with  precision,  and  the 
ears  of  the  audience  be  simultaneously  delectated?  For  the 
credit  of  the  nation,  and  of  the  growing  taste  for  operative,  ac 
tive  music,  I  ask,  can  this  solemn  appeal  be  resisted  ?  I  think 
not. 

Some  churlish,  old-fashioned  denizens  may  deem  this  plan  in- 
feasible  ;  but  I  can  tell  them  otherwise.  Let  us  secure  the  im 
portation  of  one  of  those  foreign  fowl-supervisors.  Bumm,  for 
instance,  '  Cock-feeder  to  the  gentlemen  of  Leiscestershire  ;'  let 
him  be  installed  as  manager  of  the  New- York  Metropolitan  Cock 
pit  ;  and  let  the  musical  department  be  entrusted  to  some  pas 
sionate  master  of  the  science,  who  feels  the  spirit  of  his  trade ; 
and  I  warrant  me  the  concern  will  prosper  beyond  hope.  Our 
people  need  to  be  advanced  in  these  lovely  refinements,  and  I  ask 
leave  to  explain  how  it  can  be  done. 

Let  the  pit  be  opened  as  the  theatres  are  at  present.  Let  the 
curtain  rise  on  the  feathered  combatants,  standing  each  by  his 
feeder,  looking  grim  as  Tophet,  and  his  plumage  quivering  with 
impatience.  Chanticleers,  and  fowls  of  that  genus,  without  dis 
tinction  of  sex,  are  peculiarly  susceptible  to  music.  Martial 
melody  seems  to  impregnate  them  with  the  very  spirit  of  evil. 
At  the  juncture  in  question,  let  their  pugnacious  propensities  be 
roused  by  horns,  bass-drums,  and  such  like  soul-stirring  instru 
ments.  Let  the  audience  hear  the  gathering  storm  of  sound 
which  impels  the  fighters  onward,  every  note  kindling  their  ad 
venturous  intentions,  and  *  sticking  in  their  crops'  with  ominous 
energy.  What  an  interesting  picture  is  thus  presented  ! 

'  SEE  to  their  desks  Apollo's  sons  repair  — 
Swift  rides  the  rosin  o'er  the  horse's  hair ; 
In  unison  their  various  tones  to  tune, 
Murmurs  the  hautboy,  growls  the  hoarse  bassoon; 
In  soft  vibrations  sighs  the  whispering  lute; 
Twang  goes  the  harpsichord — too-too,  the  flute  ; 
Brays  the  loud  trumpet,  squeaks  the  fiddle  sharp, 
Winds  the  French  horn,  and  rings  the  tingling  harp; 
'Till  like  great  Jove,  the  leader,  figuring  in, 
Attunes  to  order  the  chaotic  din.' 

After  the  overture,  let  the  fighting  begin,  to  slow  music.  Let 
the  fiddlers  scrape  out  the  gaff-time  ;  and  if  the  cocks  do  battle 
*  in  silver,'  let  the  music  be  made  to  imitate  the  jingling  of  that 
pleasant  metal.  As  the  combat  deepens,  the  various  instruments 
should  express  the  growling  discord  ;  and  when  the  unsuccess 
ful  cock  begins  to  give  in,  let  that  peculiar  burst  of  melody  call 
ed  a  collywablile  by  the  cockneys,  which  expresses  something  be 
tween  a  squeal  and  a  wheeze,  he  ecstacised  forth  from  the  bowels 


380  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

of  some  ancient  fiddle,  cracked  for  the  purpose.  This  would  be 
truly  interesting ;  and  when  the  discomfited  fowl  gave  his  final 
flutter,  let  his  act  of  tumbling  over  be  accompanied  by  that  *  strain 
which  has  a  dying  fall.' 

A  full  blast  of  fac-simile  cock-crowing  should  then  proceed 
from  the  orchestra,  significant  of  victory.  After  this,  a  gush  of 
soft,  low  airs  should  denote  the  end  of  the  strife,  and  express  in 
descriptive  measures,  the  falling  of  the  feathers  that  have  been 
antagonistically  educed  from  the  combatants  during  the  fray,  and 
which  will  just  then  be  floating  naturally  around.  The  finale 
could  be  selected  with  propriety  from  the  variations  of  Jim  Crow. 
Should  an  after-piece  be  required,  a  set-to  between  the  feeders 
might  come  off,  before  the  assembly. 

This  sketch  is  very  imperfect ;  but  it  embodies  a  conception 
which  I  have  long  groaned  withal,  and  of  which  I  am  proud ; 
namely,  the  establishment  of  Cock-fighting  by  Music.  The  plan 
is  stupendous,  I  know;  and,  like  all  great  undertakings,  will 
probably  meet  with  opposition ;  but  the  march  of  Taste  will 
cause  it  to  succeed.  Humanity,  decency,  dignity,  and  other 
cabalistic  words,  of  no  particular  import,  may  be  employed  against 
it;  but  this  refined  amusement  must  make  its  way,  and  float 
sweetly  into  favor,  under  the  smiles  of  Euterpe.  I  am  now  in 
active  correspondence  with  my  worthy  friend  ADRIAN  Q.  JEBB, 
Esq.,  private  cock-feeder  to  an  English  nobleman  whose  name  I 
am  not  at  liberty  to  disclose  ;  and  I  am  happy  in  believing  that 
he  will  yet  visit  America,  to  instruct  our  aristocracy  in  the  modus 
operandi  of  his  profession. 

I  merely  mention  my  plan  at  present,  owing  to  the  want  of 
time,  and  shall  perhaps  make  further  disclosures  to  the  public 
hereafter.  In  the  meanwhile,  I  will  merely  remark,  that  sub 
scription  books  for  the  Metropolitan  Cock-pit  will  soon  be  open, 
and  the  script  ready  for  delivery.  The  opening  address  is  being 
prepared  by  the  celebrated  author  of  *  The  Antediluvians  ;'  and 
the  whole  establishment  will  be  well  appointed,  in  all  respects. 
I  anticipate  the  co-operation  of  every  fellow-citizen,  whose  veins 
contain  any  gentle  blood,  and  who  can  trace  his  pedigree  back 
to  his  grandfather  without  stumbling  on  an  artisan.  It  is  to  such, 
fit  audience  though  few,  that  I  commend  my  enterprise. 

BRUMMAGEM* 


BIG   LIARS.  381 


BIG   LIARS. 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact,  that  Lemuel  Gulliver  has, 
in  modern  days,  enjoyed  too  exclusive  a  reputation  as  a  fictionist. 
Munchausen  has  laurels  which,  though  partly  deserved,  are  some 
what  too  exuberant  for  his  deserts.  Congreve  showed  his  knowl 
edge  of  liars,  when  he  made  one  of  his  dramatic  characters  say 
to  another : 

.  *  Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto  was  but  a  type  of  thee, 
Thou  Liar  of  the  first  magnitude  !' 

Pinto  was  great  in  his  way,  but  he  was  a  poor  romancer,  com 
pared  with  Sir  John  Mandeville.  The  elastic  credulity  of  that 
gentleman  could  take  in  a  mountain  of  mendacity.  Marvels, 
that  were  such  to  others,  were  trifles  to  him  ;  and  with  respect  to 
the  stories  he  heard  in  his  travels,  however  gross  they  were,  his 
great  belief  had  stomach  for  them  all.  We  design  to  rake  up  a 
few  of  his  wonders,  and  by  comparing  them  with  those  of  Pinto, 
prove  conclusively  that  the  latter  is  immeasurably  distanced,  as 
also  are  Rabelais,  Munchausen,  Gulliver,  and  indeed  the  whole 
olden  tribe  of  pencillers  by  the  way-side.  We  will  begin  with 
the  Portuguese. 

His  travels  were  of  one-and-twenty  years'  duration.  They 
were  made  in  the  kingdoms  of  Ethiopia,  China,  Tartary,  Cau- 
chin-China,  Calaminham,  Siam,  Pegu,  Japan,  and  a  great  part 
of  the  East  Indies.  They  were  *  done  in  English  by  H.  C., 
Gent,  printed  by  J.  Macock,'  and  were  *  to  be  sold  by  Henry 
Herringman,  at  the  sign  of  the  Blew  Anchor,  in  the  Lower 
Walk  of  the  London  New  Exchange,'  in  the  year  of  grace  1663. 
Poor  Pinto  !  He  suffered  much  ;  and  Cervantes  has  blackened 
his  memory  by  calling  him  the  Prince  of  Liars.  Among  the 
various  sovereigns  of  the  East  with  whom  he  sojourned,  and  in 
whose  various  battles  he  fought,  he  does  certainly  give  accounts 
of  violence,  and  misfortunes,  and  scenes  of  bloodshed  that  are 
somewhat  enlarged ;  but  he  does  not  expect  them,  we  imagine, 
to  be  believed.  In  his  wanderings,  he  '  five  times  suffered  ship- 
wrack,  was  sixteen  times  sold,  and  thirteen  times  made  a  slave.' 
He  went  first  to  the  Indies,  then  to  Ethiopia,  thence  to  Turkey. 
Here  he  was  purchased  by  a  Greek,  (he  was  then  a  captive,) 
and  sold  to  a  Jew.  Then  he  was  ransomed,  and  passing  to  Goa, 
was  received  into  the  service  of  the  king  of  Portugal.  Here  he 
is  engaged  in  astonishing  battles,  sees  the  strangest  sights,  and 


382  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

does  the  daily  labor  of  Hector.  Here  is  one  of  his  largest  lies. 
1  While  coasting  the  ile  of  Sumatra,'  he  saith,  *  we  entred  a  litel 
River,  and  saw  athwart  a  wood  such  a  many  adders  and  crawl 
ing  creatures,  no  less  prodigious  for  their  length  than  for  the 
strangeness  of  their  formes,  that  I  shall  not  marvel  if  they  that 
read  this  history  will  not  believe  my  report  of  them.'1  With  this 
preamble,  he  emboldens  himself  to  say  :  '  Those  of  this  country 
assured  us  that  these  creatures  are  so  hardy  as  there  be  some  of 
them  will  set  upon  an  Armada,  when  there  is  not  above  four  or 
five  men  in  her,  and  overturn  it  with  their  tails,  swallowing  the 
men  whole,  without  dismembering  them  !'  Gathering  confidence 
as  he  gets  on,  he  observes : 

•  In  this  place  also  we  saw  a  strange  kind  of  creatures  which  they  call 
Caquisseitan  ;  they  are  of  the  bigness  of  a  great  goose,  very  black  and  scaly 
oil  their  backs,  with  a  row  of  sharpe  pricks  on  their  chins,  as  long  as  a  wri 
ting  pen  ;  moreover  they  have  wings  like  unto  bats,  long  necks,  and  a  little 
bone  growing  on  their  necks  resembling  a  cock's  spur,  with  a  very  long 
tale,  spotted  black  and  green,  like  unto  the  lizards  of  that  country ;  these 
creatures  hop  and  fly  together  like  grass-hoppers  ;  and  in  that  manner  they 
hunt  apes,  and  such  other  beasts,  whom  they  pursue  even  to  the  tops  of  the 
highest  trees.  Also  we  saw  adders  that  were  copped  on  the  crowns  of  their 
heads,  as  big  as  a  man's  thigh,  and  so  venomous,  as  the  negroes  of  that 
country  informed  us,  that  if  any  living  thing  came  within  the  reach  of  their 
breath  it  died  presently,  there  being  no  remedy  nor  antidote  against  it. 
We  likewise  saw  others  not  copped  on  their  crowns,  nor  so  venomous  as  the 
former,  but  far  greater  and  longer,  with  an  head  as  big  as  a  calf's.' 

In  the  course  of  his  wanderings,  he  somehow  got  into  the  ser 
vice  of  the  king  of  China,  during  which  time  the  city  of  Nanquin 
was  attempted  to  be  taken  by  the  king  of  Tartaria,  but  his  army 
was  sorely  discomfited.  Mark  the  result.  *  Now,'  says  Pinto, 
4  after  they  had  taken  an  account  of  all  the  dead,  there  appeared 
four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand,  the  most  of  whom  died  by  sick 
ness,  as  also  an  hundred  thousand  horses,  and  three  score  thou 
sand  rhinocerots,  which  were  eaten  in  the  space  of  two  months 
and  a  half,  wherein  they  wanted  victual ;  so  that  of  eighteen 
hundred  thousand  men,  wherewith  the  king  of  Tartaria  came  to 
besiege  Pequin,  he  carried  home  seven  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  less  than  he  brought.'  From  carrying  on  an  armament 
against  the  king  of  Mattaban,  Pinto  becomes  ambassador  to  the 
court  of  Calaminham,  whose  extraordinary  magnificence  he 
especially  describes,  and  thence  sails  down  the  great  river  Ritsey, 
whose  banks,  if  we  may  believe  him,  are  stocked  with  marvels. 
He  makes  particular  mention  of  *  certain  tawny  men,  who  are 
great  archers,  having  their  feet  like  oxen,  but  their  hands  are  like 
unto  other  men,  except  that  they  are  exceedingly  hairy.'  He 
saw,  beside,  *  men  named  Magares,  who  feed  on  wild  beasts, 


BIG    LIARS.  383 

which  they  eat  raw,  such  as  serpents  and  adders  ;  they  hunt  these 
wild  beasts,  mounted  on  certain  animals  as  big  as  horses,  which 
have  three  horns  in  the  middle  of  their  foreheads,  with  thick, 
short  legs,  and  on  the  middle  of  their  backs  a  row  of  prickles ; 
all  the  rest  of  their  body  is  like  a  great  lizard ;  beside,  they  have 
on  their  necks  instead  of  hair,  other  prickles,  far  longer  and  big 
ger  than  those  on  their  backs  ;  and  on  the  joints  of  their  shoul 
ders  short  wings,  (the  real  hippogriff!)  wherewith  they  fly,  as  it 
were  —  leaping  the  length  of  five  or  six-and-twenty  paces  at  a 
grasp.' 

Let  us  now  see  how  Sir  John  Mandeville  bears  away  the  palm 
in  his  Travels,  *  werein  is  sett  down  ye  way  to  the  Holie  Lond, 
or  Lond  of  Behest  and  Hieruzaleme  ;  as  also  to  the  londs  of  the 
Great  Caan,  and  of  Prester  lohn  ;  to  Indy  and  diverse  other 
countries,  with  manie  and  straunge  merveilles  therein.'  His 
tour  was  commenced  in  1322,  and  ended  in  1356,  making  thir 
ty-four  years'  absence  from  his  native  land.  He  went  first  to 
Egypt,  and  engaged  in  the  service  of  the  Sultan  of  that  country, 
Melek  Maderon.  His  religion  at  last  induced  him  to  leave  that 
court  for  the  Holy  Land.  Thence  he  went  to  Tartary,  where, 
with  four  other  knights,  he  was  in  the  service  of  the  Great  Chan. 
His  object  of  travel  is  thus  expressed  :  *  And  for  als  moche  as 
it  is  long  tyme  past  that  there  was  no  general  passage  ne  vyage 
over  the  see ;  and  many  men  were  desiren  for  to  here  speke  of 
the  Holy  Lond,  I,  John  Mandeville,  knyght.  that  was  born  in 
Englond,  in  the  town  of  Seynt  Albones,  albeit  not  worthi,  passed 
the  see  in  the  yeere  of  our  Lord  lesu  Crist  MCCCXXII.,  in  the 
day  of  Seynt  Michelle,  and  hidre  to  have  ben  long  tyme  over  the 
see,  and  have  seen  and  gone  thorghe  divers  londs,  and  manie 
provinces  and  kingdomes,  and  iles,  and  have  passed  thorghe 
Tartarye,  Lybye,  Calde,  and  a  gret  partie  of  Ethiope ;  thorghe 
Amazoyne,  Inde  the  less  and  the  more,  a  gret  partie,  and  thorghe- 
out  manie  other  iles  that  ben  abouten  Inde  ;  where  dwellen 
many  divers  folkes,  and  of  divers  manners  and  laws,  and  of  di 
vers  schappes  of  men.' 

Mandeville  seemed  to  labor  under  a  kind  of  mental  elephanti 
asis.  Nothing  was  loo  large  for  his  credit.  In  dragons  and  evil 
spirits,  that  carried  on  their  ambulatory  carnival  on  earth,  and 
appeared  constantly  to  the  *  stark  staring  eyes'  of  men,  he  had 
the  fullest  belief;  in  fact,  if  we  may  trust  him,  he  met  with  them 
in  great  abundance,  and  saw  their  nests,  as  it  were,  where  most 
they  bred  and  haunted.  *  In  Ethiope,'  as  we  learn  from  him, 
*  are  such  men  that  have  but  one  foot,  and  they  go  so  fast  that  it 
is  a  grete  marvel ;  and  that  is  a  large  foot,  for  the  shadow  there- 


384  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

of  covereth  the  body  from  sun  or  rain  when  they  lie  on  their 
backs.'  In  the  island  of  Macameran,  which  is  a  *  great  ile  and 
fair,'  he  says  *  the  men  and  women  have  heads  like  hounds  ;  they 
are  reasonable,  and  worship  an  ox  for  their  God  ;  they  are  good 
men  to  fight,  and  bear  a  great  target  wherewith  they  cover  all 
their  body,  and  a  spear  in  their  hand.'  The  population  in  the 
island  of  Tarkonet,  which  he  visited,  receive  this  mention  :  *  In 
this  ile,  all  men  are  as  beasts,  and  dwell  in  caves,  not  having 
wit  to  make  houses.  They  eat  adders,  and  speke  not,  but  make 
such  noises  as  the  beasts  do  one  to  another.'  He  proceeds  : 
*  There  is  another  ile  called  Dodyn,  and  in  the  same  ile  are 
many  and  divers  sorts  of  men  who  have  evil  manners.  The 
King  of  this  ile  is  a  great  lord  and  mighty,  and  hath  in  many  iles 
other  kings  under  him ;  and  in  one  of  these  iles  are  men  that 
have  but  one  eye,  and  that  is  in  the  midst  of  their  front ;  which 
eat  their  flesh  and  fish  all  raw.  And  in  another  ile  are  men  that 
have  no  heads,  and  their  eyes  are  in  their  shoulders,  and  their 
mouth  in  their  breasts  !' 

This  gives  Mandeville  our  '  suffrages'  as  a  superior  of  Pinto. 
No  doubt  his  work  was  familiar  to  Shakspeare,  who  unquestion 
ably  took  from  it  the  information  which  Othello  conveyed  to  the 
grave  and  reverend  seniors,  in  his  great  Defence,  wherein  he 
spoke 

— •'  Of  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle, 

Of  cannibals,  that  did  each  other  eat, 

And  of  the  Anthropophagi,  men  whose  heads 

Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.1 

Mandeville  continues :  '  And  in  another  ile  nigh-by,  are  men 
that  have  ne  head,  ne  eyen,  and  their  mouth  is  in  their  shoulders  ! 
Another  ile  is  there,  where  be  men  that  have  flat  faces  without 
nosen  and  without  eyen,  but  they  have  two  small  holes  in  lew  of 
eyen,  and  they  have  flatted  nosen,  withouten  lippes.  And  also  in 
that  ile  are  men  that  have  their  faces  all  flat,  without  eyen,  with 
out  mouth,  and  withouten  nose,  but  they  have  their  eyen  and 
their  mouth  behind,  on  their  shoulders !' 

The  old  knight  was  a  perfect  Yankee  in  inquisitiveness.  These 
are  his  reasons  for  going  to  Tartary.  We  give  them  in  his  own 
quaint  language  :  i  And  yee  schalle  undirstond  that  my  fellowes 
and  I  with  our  zomen,  we  serveden  this  Emperour  (of  Tartary) 
and  weren  his  soudyoures  fifteen  moneths  agenst  the  kyng  of 
Mancy,  that  held  war  agenst  him.  And  the  cause  was,  for  we 
hadden  grete  lust  for  to  see  his  noblesse,  and  the  estat  of  his 
corte,  and  all  his  governance,  to  wyt  gif  it  were  soche  as  we  her 
d-en  say  that  it  was.' 


BIG   LIARS.  385 

He  regretted,  wheh  at  Jerusalem,  in  the  Land  of  Behest,  that 
he  could  not  find  many  of  the  relics  of  our  Saviour's  crucifixion. 
He  gives  this  account  of  some  of  them :  '  A  part  of  the  crown 
wherewithal  our  Lord  was  crowned,  and  eke  one  of  the  nales, 
and  the  speer's  hed,  and  manie  other  relicks,  are  in  France  and 
Paris,  in  the  kyng's  chapelle.  This  crown  was  made  of  junks 
of  the  see  ;  half  whereof  is  at  Paris,  and  the  other  at  Constanti 
nople  ;  and  the  speer's  shafte  the  emperour  of  Almany  hath. 
Likewise  the  emperour  of  Constantinople  saith  that  he  hath  the 
speer's  head — and  I  have  seen  his.'' 

It  was  a  subject  of  great  regret  to  our  traveller,  that  he  did  not 
visit  Paradise  !  a  place  which  he  approached  *  very  nearly,'  but 
concluded  somehow  not  to  enter.  We  wonder  not  at  his  scruples 
of  unworthiness,  after  the  large  stories  he  had  previously  told. 
Yet  on  reflection,  we  can  hardly  conceive  that,  after  recording 
those  stupendous  narrations,  he  could  shrink  from  any  enterprise. 
But  although  he  did  not  visit  Paradise  in propria persona,  he  leads 
us  to  infer  that  he  met  a  great  plenty  of  persons  who  had ;  and 
he  offers  us  his  information  on  the  subject,  with  an  air  of  earnest 
confidence,  as  if  he  could  not  be  gainsayed.  He  knew  very- 
well,  (if  he  disbelieved  his  own  story,  which  is  doubtful,)  that 
contradiction  was  almost  impossible,  since  travel,  in  those  days  was 
a  matter  of  Herculean  enterprise,  seldom  entered  upon,  save  by 
Quixottes  errant,  and  wights  of  suspicious  integrity  of  brain. 
Therefore  he  was  at  liberty  to  speak  as  he  did  of  the  place  be 
loved  by  our  first  parents,  and  where  often 

4  Hand  in  hand  they  passed,  the  loveliest  pair 
That  ever  since  in  Love's  embraces  met : 
Adam  the  goodliest  man  of  men,  since  born 
His  son's,  the  fairest  of  her  daughters,  Eve.' 

He  does  not  enter,  like  the  sublime  and  imaginative  Milton,  upon 
a  picture  of  the  verdant  coverts  of  laurel  and  myrtle,  the  bright 
acanthus,  the  roses,  jessamines,  crocus,  and  hyacinth,  that 
'  broidered  with  rich  inlay'  that  holy  ground  ;  but  he  simply  saith : 
4  Of  Paradys  ne  can  I  not  speken  properly,  for  I  was  not  there. 
It  is  far  beyond,  and  that  forthinketh  me  :  also  I  was  not  worthi. 
This  Paradys  is  enclosed  all  about  with  a  wall,  and  men  wyt  not 
whereof  it  is  made,  for  the  walls  beinge  covered  all  over  with 
mosse,  as  it  seemeth :  and  that  wall  stretchethe  fro  the  South 
unto  the  North,  and  it  hath  not  but  one  entree,  and  that  is  closed 
with  Fyre-brenning.'  This  idea  of  the  burning  fire  at  the  gate 
of  Paradise  he  derived  without  question  from  the  early  Scriptures, 
wherein  is  recorded  the  ejection  of  Adam  and  Eve  from  Eden, 
whom  God  sent  forth  to  till  the  earth  et  collocavit  ungelum  qui 

25 


386  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

praferebat  manu  igneum  gladium,  ut  custodiret  aditum  Paradisi. 
Indeed  the  hints  of  many  of  his  gratuities  are  drawn  from  the 
Sacred  Writings,  which  are  thus  perverted  and  obscured  to  his 
reader. 

We  have  written  enough,  we  think,  to  convince  the  most 
skeptical  that  Mandeville  is  a  preeminent  fabulist,  worthy  to  stand 
like  a  Colossus  among  the  great  Fibbers  of  the  Past.  A  closer 
comparison  of  his  claims  to  distinction  in  this  regard,  will  add 
fresh  leaves  to  his  crown.  We  have  not  forgotten  the  Pantagruel 
and  Gargantua  of  Rabelais  ;  the  tin  horn  and  cherry-tree  of  Mun- 
chausen ;  the  Lilliputians  that  beset  Gulliver,  nor  the  extraordi 
nary  means  which  he  subdued  great  conflagrations  withal ;  but 
for  *  large  discourse'  in  fiction,  we  prefer  Mendez  Pinto  to  all  of 
them,  and  Mandeville  to  Pinto. 


LAFAYETTE    AND    WASHINGTON.  387 


LAFAYETTE    AND   WASHINGTON. 

Ay    ADDRESS    PRONOUNCED    BEFORE  .  THE    WASHINGTON  SOCIETY    OF    LAFAY 
ETTE    COLLEGE,    EASTON,    PA-,    JULY    4,    1840. 

THE  events  which  bring  a  Nation  up,  as  it  were,  on  one  day 
simultaneously  together,  to  worship  near  the  high  altars  dedica 
ted  by  virtuous  patriotism  to  the  genius  of  liberty,  and  the  ex 
pansion  of  the  dear  rights  of  mankind,  are  of  all  others,  the  most 
ennobling.  They  constitute  the  landmarks  by  which  Republics 
are  guided  in  their  career ;  they  furnish  the  test  whereby  men  of 
eminence  in  a  state  are  tried,  and  distinguished,  or  forgotten. 
On  any  day,  connected  with  the  history  of  a  great  man  who  has 
done  good  to  his  country,  there  teems  a  consecrated  interest. 
Why  is  it,  that  on  certain  occasions  in  the  experience  of  every 
country  but  those  which  are. purely  despotic,  the  universal  heart 
of  the  people  throbs  forth  in  sympathetic  unison  ;  that  men  and 
women  gather  together,  the  one  with  their  energy  and  pride  of 
presence,  the  other  with  the  graces  and  blandishments,  which 
give  superior  beauty  and  g-Jow  to  existence ;  to  celebrate,  per 
haps  the  release  of  a  continent,  an  empire,  or  a  section,  from 
bonds  and  confusion,  into  brightness,  and  liberty,  and  peace, 
and  to  remember,  with  pleasure  and  pride,  the  lofty  spirits  who 
ministered  to  so  glorious  a  consummation  ?  Why  is  it,  that  on 
such  occasions,  even  reverence  wants  language,  and  the  spirit  of 
Eulogy  has  neither  boundary  nor  curb  ?  It  is  because,  in  a  just- 
minded  nation,  those  who  mourn,  must  triumph  together ;  be 
cause,  where  we  lament  the  upright  and  the  lost,  we  can  yet  rev 
erence  and  cherish  their  example  for  the  living. 

In  addressing  an  Association  such  as  that  before  which  I  have 
now  the  honor  to  appear,  and  which  combines,  with  its  own  title, 
that  of  the  institution  of  which  it  is,  in  one  high  sense,  a  part,  it 
is  impossible,  that  on  a  day  like  this,  I  could  perceive,  with  re 
gard  to  the  distinguished  and  immortal  names  of  LAFAYETTE 
and  WASHINGTON,  a  divided  duty  of  remembrance.  They 
were  both  soldiers  of  Liberty  ;  both  were  in  the  van-guard  of 
independence  and  of  freedom  ;  and  how  few  things  may  be  said 
of  the  one,  which  are  not  equally  due  to  the  other!  Let  it  be 
our  task,  then,  humbly  to  develope  the  greatness  and  the  good 
ness  evinced  in  the  course  of  each ;  briefly  to  show  forth  the 


388  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

high  and  holy  motives  by  which  they  were  guided  —  the  honor 
able  means  and  influence  they  employed  in  pursuing  the  advan 
tages  of  which  each  was  successfully  the  seeker  and  guide  ;  and 
the  manner  in  which,  after  well-spent  lives,  they  were  enabled 
to  look  back  upon  the  fruits  of  their  labors  with  contentment  con 
cerning  the  past,  and  glorious  hopes  for  the  future. 

In  the  College  and  the  Society  bearing  these  two  names, 
there  is  discernible,  in  their  very  adoption,  the  spirit  of  consistent 
and  faithful  freedom.  LAFAYETTE  and  WASHINGTON,  though 
born  in  different  countries,  and  under  different  auspices,  were 
yet  kindred  spirits.  They  were  reapers,  sent  forth  into  the 
abundant  harvest-field  of  revolutionary  triumph.  Each  of  these 
immortal  men  seemed  conscious  that  he  had  come  into  the  world, 
with  lofty  acts  depending  on  his  soul  and  arm,  and  which  he 
must  fulfil.  History  tells  how  they  were  carried  to  their  com 
pletion. 

In  treating  of  the  character  of  LAFAYETTE,  it  has  been  too 
much  the  custom  of  our  writers  and  speakers  to  refer,  with  more 
particularity  and  emphasis,  to  the  course  of  greatness  and  benefit 
which  he  pursued  here  so  brilliantly  on  American  ground,  and 
in  the  infancy  of  the  American  republic;  even  when,  though  a 
republic  in  spirit,  it  had  not  quite  acquired  to  itself  the  name. 
But  fondly  and  gratefully  as  we  mtxy  dwell  upon  those  crises  and 
adventures  in  his  wonderful  history,  there  is  a  double  beauty  in 
his  earliest  and  latest  efforts  for  liberty  ^t  Home.  He  was  ever 
on  the  side  of  just  laws ;  but  against  tyranny  of  every  name,  he 
waged  perpetual  warfare.  Of  high  birth,  and  exalted,  noble  con 
nexions,  the  false  chivalry  and  deceptions  of  Courts  appeared  to 
have  no  charm  for  his  frank  and  open  mind.  His  aspirations 
were  of  a  higher  order.  Who,  in  England's  history  —  I  speak 
with  no  invidious  comparisons  between  that  country  and  France — 
has  appeared  with  the  same  outset,  blandishments,  and  induce 
ments  to  engage  in  the  cause  of  royal  successions,  ever  turned 
in  his  mind,  to  make  them  consonant  with  the  cause  of  freedom, 
or  else  to  leave  them  ? 

When,  in  the  calm  surveys  of  history,  Time  seems  to  yield 
up  his  trophies,  and  death  to  restore  the  mouldered  victims  of 
his  voiceless  band  ;  and  we  read  of  the  crimes  that  cursed,  or 
the  bright  deeds  that  blessed  a  century,  we  can  draw  our  com 
parisons  between  the  man  who  is  merely  great  from  ambition, 
without  being  good,  or  he  who  is  at  once,  in  uniform  act  and  in 
tention,  from  youth  to  age,  both  great  and  good  together.  Let 
us,  for  example,  compare  the  deaths  of  Cromwell,  or  Richard  of 
Bosworth  field,  and  that  of  Lafayette  at  La  Grange.  Crom- 


LAFAYETTE    AND    WASHINGTON.  389 

well,  full  of  unquenchable  passions,  was  fierce  and  desperate  to 
the  last ;  and  how  died  he,  who,  with  Plantagenets,  and  turmoils, 
and  murders,  held  his  very  life  a  mystery,  to  be  solved  as  Fate 
might  utter,  caring  not  for  deeds  of  darkness  or  a  wounded 
name  ?  Roll  back  the  tide  of  years,  and  see  him  :  the  fragrance 
of  Summer  is  in  his  nostrils,  as  he  gazes  through  the  midnight 
upon  the  watch-fires  of  the  armies,  and  hears  the  armorers  ac 
complishing  the  knights,  and  the  neighing  war-horse  waiting  for 
the  noise  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting ;  but  his  spirit  is  ill  at 
ease ;  the  merit  of  defeat  which  is  due  him,  he  knows  full  well ; 
and  the  light  of  his  star  has  a  baleful  significance,  as  he  sinks  to 
his  troubled  rest.  Then, 

Mark  the  sceptred  traitor  slumbering ! 

There  flit  the  slaves  of  Conscience  round  ; 
With  boding  tongue  foul  murders  numbering  — 

Sleep's  leaden  portals  catch  the  sound. 
In  his  dream  of  blood,  for  mercy  quaking, 
At  his  own  dull  scream  !  behold  his  waking  ! 
Hark  !  the  trumpet's  warning  breath, 
Echoes  round  that  vale  of  death. 
Unhorsed,  unhelmed,  disdaining  shield, 
The  panting  tyrant  scours  the  field. 

Vengeance  !  he  meets  thy  dooming  blade  ! 
The  scourge  of  earth,  the  scorn  of  Heaven  — 
He  falls  —  unwept  and  unforgiven, 
And  all  his  guilty  glories  fade. 
Like  a  crushed  reptile  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
And  Hate's  last  lightnings  quiver  from  his  eyes ! 

Sprague's  Ode  to  Shakspeare. 

Thus  perished  one  of  the  most  famous  dukes  of  England! 
How  did  the  Marquis  of  La  Grange  expire?  As  the  setting 
sun  descends  to  his  beautiful  evening  pavilion,  with  gorgeous 
companies  of  clouds  waiting  around  him,  until  in  the  bright 
waters  of  the  West,  he  sinks  to  '  where  his  islands  of  refresh 
ment  lie  !' 

When  LAFAYETTE  came  to  America,  with  a  noble  apprehen 
sion  in  his  heart,  that  our  great  crisis  could  not  transact  itself 
without  him,  his  native  land  was  just  fermenting  into  a  condition, 
wherein,  if  he  had  been  so  basely-minded,  he  might  have  attained 
an  eminence,  commanding  half  that  kingdom.  What  he  did 
here,  we  know ;  how  he  co-operated  with  the  '  Saviour  of  his 
Country,'  for  her  good  ;  the  wounds  of  his  green  youth,  at  Bran 
dy  wine  ;  his  coping  with  Cornwallis,  who  declared  that  *  the  boy- 
should  not  escape  him  ;'  his  forced  marches  to  Virginia  ;  the 
liberality  with  which  he  poured  out,  like  water,  his  treasure  and 
credit  for  the  welfare  of  those  troops,  who  were  but  too  happy  to 


390  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

% 

serve  under  him ;  the  siege  of  Yorktown ;  his  repeated  return, 
after  his  first  visit,  together  with  his  efforts  in  Spain  to  assist  the 
American  cause,  which  peace  happily  rendered  unnecessary  ; 
these  facts  are  but  household  words,  on  American  tongues. 
Thank  Heaven !  they  are  words  that  comer  from  the  heart,  and 
yet  have  no  gloss  of  newness,  or  of  momentary  show.  Let  us 
bear  in  mind,  that -on  his  last  return,  but  one,  to  France,  after 
being  elected  to  the  membership  of  the  National  Assembly,  he 
was  appointed  the  Commander-in-chief  of  the  National  Guards 
of  Paris,  two  days  after  the  celebrated  attack  upon  the  Bastille. 
How  might  the  effect  of  this  attack  have  worked  upon  the  mind 
of  a  hero,  wrongly  ambitious? 

History  answers  this  question,  in  the  biography  of  so  many 
persons  that  it  would  demand  and  deserve  volumes  to  chronicle, 
either  their  doings  or  the  consequences  of  those  doings.  Re 
corders  or  annalists,  BAILLY,  DUSAULX,  BESANVAL  ;  not  to 
name  innumerable  others,  by  letter  or  printed  page,  kept  up  the 
record  of  that  dreadful  time,  as  pictures  for  posterity.  How 
triumphantly  could  LAFAYETTE  have  careered  upon  that  storm ; 
not  only  with  glory,  but  without  danger?  And  yet,  politically 
speaking,  it  was,  for  a  season,  the  Euroclydon  of  France.  Even 
in  our  far-off  western  America  —  'our  own  green  forest-land' — - 
the  scenes  of  the  Revolution  in  France  were  familiar  to  youthful 
minds  and  eyes,  and  reveries  ;  and  the  keeper  who  let  forth  '  The 
Aged  Prisoner,  Released  from  the  Bastille,'  was  ranked  with 
Giant  Despair,  of  Doubting  Castle,  in  the  'Pilgrim's  Progress' 
of  BUNYAN,  who  accidentally  condescended  to  sleep,  or  be  indif 
ferent,  or  otherwise  engaged,  while  his  victims  were  departing. 

Such  were  even  the  rudest  notions  here,  of  an  event  which 
struck  awe  through  France.  It  awakens  our  highest  admiration 
of  LAFAYETTE,  that  while  he  might  have  profited  in  wielding, 
at  this  moment,  the  Parisian  populace  at  will,  he  sought  no 
power,  not  justly  and  purely  derived.  The  flag  of  France  re 
ceived,  at  that  time,  as  it  were,  from  his  hand,  the  last  emblem 
of  the  tri-color;  and  his  prophecy  has  been  fulfilled,  that  it 
passes  in  triumph  around  the  world.  He  had  seen,  in  America, 
that  honest  revolution  was  not  disobedient  to  honest  domestic 
laws  ;  and  with  that  glorious  lesson  before  him,  he  followed  it  in 
practice  to  the  utmost,  until  his  death.  He  showed,  in  all  things, 
that  he  was  in  very  deed  a  republican.  In  opposing,  with  Bail- 
ly,  the  Jacobin  club;  in  swearing,  in  the  name  of  four  millions 
of  National  Guards,  fidelity  to  the  Constitution  ;  in  advocating 
the  extinction  of  empty  titles  of  nobility,  and  renouncing  his  own  ; 
in  the  dungeons  of  Austria ;  in  his  watchful,  yet  characteristic 


LAFAYETTE    AND    WASHINGTON.  391 

course  with  that  great  captain  of  his  age,  Napoleon ;  in  the  revo 
lution  of  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty  — and  in  the  serene  decline 
of  his  many  and  useful  years — who,  and  how  few,  of  the  various 
military  and  civil  dignitaries,  that  in  Europe  have  risen,  and 
shone,  and  fell,  have  been  his  parallel  ? 

It  has  been  said  by  a  distinguished  and  far-reaching  spirit  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  that  there  is  that  within  the  life  of  the 
humblest  mortal,  which,  well  considered,  would  furnish  forth  the 
substance  and  material  of  an  epic  poem.  If  that  be  true,  that 
must  be  a  daring  mind,  a  mind  of  utter  leisure,  and  with  a  strong 
and  sustaining  wing,  which  would  attempt  to  pour  forth,  in  verse, 
the  deeds  of  daring  and  of  greatness,  of  comprehensive  benevo 
lence,  and  Christian  virtue,  which  signalized  /LAFAYETTE. 
What  an  extended  and  changeful  picture  unfolds  itself,  in  con 
nexion  with  his  last  visit  to  our  shores  !  A  boundless  continent, 
which,  when  he  had  before  come  among  us,  was  the  abode  of  a 
terrified  population ;  of  wild  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  savages, 
glutting,  whensoever  and  wheresoever  they  could,  their  thirst  for 
human  blood,  had  begun  to  bud  and  bloom,  and  blossom  as  the 
rose.  Cities,  towns,  and  villages,  had  sprung  up  to  beautify  the 
waste  places  of  the  republic;  and  where  streams  which  might 
cross  the  Atlantic,  were  beforetime  shadowed  with  interminable 
forests,  he  beheld  the  smoking  chariots  of  Fulton,  gliding  in 
their  majesty  and  might ;  innumerable  marts,  gilding  and  suffus 
ing  with  life  and  business,  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land;  a 
united  people;  a  sacred  constitution;  and  the  prospects  of  a 
nation,  brilliant  beyond  the  utmost  blazon  of  the  pencil,  of  the 
pen.  Where  the  Delaware  slept  near  its  springs,  in  calm  tran 
quillity  or  overshadowed  murmurings,  he  saw  the  marks  of  glo 
rious  improvements,  linking  realm  with  realm  in  our  confederacy; 
and  her  institutions,  grants,  and  intellectual  Associations,  per 
petuating  his  name. 

Let  us  now  briefly  turn  to  WASHINGTON.  We  can  not  do  the 
injustice  to  any  here  present  to  suppose  it  requisite  to  particu 
larize  the  great  events  in  the  career  of  that  incomparable  man. 
But,  if  this  republic  ever  incurs  the  charge  of  being  ungrateful 
to  her  largest  benefactor,  next  to  the  ALMIGHTY,  it  will  be  when 
it  shall  be  considered  repetition  to  venerate  his  character  and 
laud  his  deeds.  We  will  not  go  over  the  red  battle-fields  of  his 
country,  where  he  shone  in  conquest,  or  signalized  his  military 
stratagie  in  retreat.  The  whole  synthesis,  so  to  speak,  of  his 
character,  was  to  deserve  success,  and  he  ever  achieved  it.  The 
character  of  WASHINGTON  was  such  that  it  overawed  those  who 


392  PROSE      MISCELLANIES. 

plotted  against  him,  and  discomfited  his  enemies.  When  he 
rebuked  an  Arnold,  we  seem  to  see,  in  that  office,  the  action, 
and  almost  to  hear  the  voice,  of  Cicero  against  the  Roman  con 
spirator,  while  he  charged  him,  in  the  senate,  with  having,  on 
the  previous  evening,  at  M.  Lucca's  house,  divided  Italy  into 
shares  with  his  accomplices ;  some  for  the  field,  and  others  for 
the  capitol.  WASHINGTON  had  the  power  of  making  a  corrupt 
ambition  quail  before  him,  at  the  same  time  that  he  caused  the 
effects  of  that  ambition,  through  precept,  not  through  example 
of  his  enemies,  to  operate  in  his  behalf.  In  this,  there  was 
something  more  than  the  hero.  He,  who  on  the  field  of  battle, 
could  call  his  indomitable  legions,  and  '  perpetual  glories  round 
him,'  in  the  wars  of  the  republic,  could,  in  his  walks  of  peace, 
invoke  the  co-operation  and  the  counsel  of  the  philosopher  and 
the  Christian.  In  the  laws  of  God,  he  saw  and  recognised  the 
laws  of  man.  He  heard  the  voice  of  the  people  in  favor  of  a 
course  upon  which  he  could  look  back  at  its  close  with  satis 
faction  and  with  pride  ;  and  he  recognised  it  as  the  voice  of 
Heaven,  which  first  called  him  to  the  field  of  conflict,  and 
crowned  his  efforts  for  his  country  with  abundant  success.  He 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  falter,  in  any  undertaking.  With  an 
estimate  of  chances  in  his  mind,  which  bespoke  not  only  the 
man  of  caution,  but  the  man  of  nerve,  he  shrunk  from  no  en 
terprise.  The  result  showed  that  he  regarded  the  right,  which 
he  was  to  vindicate,  in  the  truest  light.  He  knew  that  he  was 
not  laboring  for  himself ;  the  glory  that  pertained  to  the  perform 
ance  of  genuine  duty,  he  was  aware  would  accrue  to  him,  in  an 
abundant  harvest ;  but  this,  with  him,  was  a  secondary  consid 
eration.  So  thoroughly  was  his  great  mind  imbued  with  the 
truth,  that  one  who  devotes  himself  rightfully  and  sincerely  to 
his  country,  becomes,  of  consequence,  whether  successful  or  un 
successful,  an  heir  of  fame  among  all  the  sons  of  freedom,  that 
he  acted  always  on  that  principle,  in  the  midst  of  the  severest 
trials  to  which  his  military  and  civic  career  was  subjected.  He 
replied  to  calumny  with  silence  ;  against  artful  and  hidden  op 
position,  with  which  he  triumphantly  contended,  he  opposed 
only  the  shield  of  his  own  rectitude,  and  appealed  only,  as  a 
guaranty  for  the  future,  to  the  past  records  of  his  career  of  glory. 
While  state  after  state,  combined  to  do  him  honor ;  after  a  bril 
liant  military  and  civic  life,  he  retires  to  Mount  Vernon,  in  quest 
of  his  much-loved  repose,  which  the  best  of  men  have  ever  loved  ; 
and  like  the  pure  Scipio,  on  the  Cumsan  shore,  addressed  them 
selves  in  their  privacy  to  the  benefit  of  mankind.  In  this  posi 
tion,  as  himself  did,  we  have  leisure  to  survey  the  calm  bright- 


LAFAYETTE    AND    WASHINGTON.  393 

ness  of  his  nature,  and  the  inestimable  value  of  the  services  he 
had  rendered  to  freedom  throughout  the  world.  There  is  an 
analysis  of  his  character,  by  his  friend  and  faithful  adviser,  and 
the  philosopher  of  his  age,  the  illustrious  MARSHALL,  which  has 
never  been  surpassed  by  any  American  or  European  pen.  Nothing 
can  be  added  to  it,  without  producing  tawdry  ornament,  or  blind 
hyperbole  ;  nothing  taken  away,  without  diminishing  the  wonder 
ful  and  perfect  symmetry  of  the  whole. 

'  The  manners  of  WASHINGTON,'  he  tells  us,  '  were  rather  re 
served  than  free,  though  they  partook  nothing  of  that  dryness  and 
sternness  which  accompany  reserve,  when  carried  to  an  extreme  ; 
and  on  all  proper  occasions,  he  would  relax  sufficiently  to  show 
how  highly  he  was  gratified  by  the  charms  of  conversation,  and 
the  pleasures  of  society.  His  person  and  whole  deportment  ex 
hibited  an  unaffected  and  indescribable  dignity,  unmingled  with 
haughtiness,  of  which,  all  who  approached  him  were  sensible, 
and  the  attachment  of  those  who  possessed  his  friendship,  and 
enjoyed  his  intimacy,  was  ardent,  but  always  respectful.  His 
temper  was  humane,  benevolent,  and  conciliatory ;  but  there 
was  quickness  in  his  sensibility  to  anything  apparently  offensive, 
which  experience  had  taught  him  to  watch  and  correct.  In  the 
management  of  his  private  affairs,  he  exhibited  an  exact  yet  liberal 
economy.  His  funds  were  not  prodigally  wasted  on  capricious 
and  ill-examined  schemes,  nor  refused  to  beneficial,  though  cost 
ly  improvements ;  they  remained,  therefore,  competent  to  that 
expensive  establishment,  which  his  reputation,  added  to  his  hospi 
table  temper,  had  in  some  measure  imposed  upon  him,  and  to 
those  donations  which  real  distress  has  a  right  to  claim  from  opu 
lence.  He  made  no  pretensions  to  that  vivacity  which  fascinates, 
or  to  that  wit  which  dazzles  and  frequently  imposes  on  the  un 
derstanding.  More  solid  than  brilliant,  judgment  rather  than 
genius  constituted  the  most  prominent  feature  of  his  character. 
As  a  military  man,  he  was  brave,  enterprising,  and  cautious. 
That  malignity  which  has  sought  to  strip  him  of  all  the  higher 
qualities  of  a  general,  has  conceded  to  him  personal  courage,  and 
a  firmness  of  resolution  which  neither  dangers  nor  difficulties 
could  shake.  But  candor  will  allow  him  other  great  and  valua 
ble  endowments.  If  his  military  course  does  not  abound  with 
splendid  achievements,  it  exhibits  a  series  of  judicious  measures, 
adapted  to  circumstances,  which  probably  saved  his  country. 
Placed,  without  having  studied  the  theory  or  been  taught  in  the 
school  of  experience  the  practice  of  war,  at  the  head  of  an  un 
disciplined,  ill-organized  multitude,  which  was  unused  to  the  re 
straints,  and  unacquainted  with  the  ordinary  duties  of  a  camp  ; 


394  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

without  the  aid  of  officers  possessing  those  lights  which  the  com- 
mander-in-chief  was  yet  to  acquire,  it  would  have  been  a  miracle 
indeed  had  his  conduct  been  altogether  faultless.  But  possess 
ing  an  energetic  and  distinguishing  mind,  on  which  the  lessons 
of  experience  were  never  lost,  his  errors,  if  he  committed  any, 
were  quickly  repaired  ;  and  those  measures  which  the  state  of 
things  rendered  most  advisable,,  were  seldom  if  ever,  neglected. 
Inferior  to  his  adversary  in  the  numbers,  in  the  equipment,  and 
in  the  discipline  of  his  troops,  it  is  evidence  of  real  merit  that  no 
great  and  decisive  advantages  were  ever  obtained  over  him,  and 
the  opportunity  to  strike  an  important  blow  never  passed  away 
unused.  He  has  been  termed  the  American  Fabius ;  but  those 
who  compare  his  actions  with  his  means,  will  perceive  at  least  as 
much  of  Marcellus  as  of  Fabius  in  his  character.  He  could  not 
have  been  more  enterprising,  without  endangering  the  cause  he 
defended,  nor  have  put  more  to  hazard,  without  incurring,  justly, 
the  imputation  of  rashness.  Not  relying  upon  those  chances 
which  sometimes  give  a  favorable  issue  to  attempts  apparently 
desperate*  his  conduct  was  regulated  by  calculations,  made  upon 
the  capacities  of  his  army,  and  the  real  situation  of  his  country. 
When  called  a  second  time  to  command  the  armies  of  the  United 
States,  a  change  of  circumstances  had  taken  place,  and  he  medi 
tated  a  corresponding  change  of  conduct.  In  modeling  the  army 
of  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety-eight,  he  sought  for  men  dis 
tinguished  for  their  boldness  of  execution,  not  less  for  their  pru 
dence  in  council,  and  contemplated  a  system  of  continued  attack. 
'The  enemy,'  said  the  General,  in  his  private  letters,  'must 
never  be.  permitted  to  gain  foothold  on  our  shores.'  In  his  civil 
administration,  as  in  his  military  career,  were  exhibited  ample  and 
repeated  proofs  of  that  practical  good  sense,  of  that  sound  judg 
ment,  which  is,  perhaps,'  the  most  rare,  and  is  certainly  the  most 
valuable  quality  of  the  human  mind.  Devoting  himself  to  the 
duties  of  his  station,  and  pursuing  no  object  distinct  from  the 
public  good,  he  was  accustomed  to  contemplate,  at  a  distance, 
those  critical  situations  in  which  the  United  States  might  proba 
bly  be  placed,  and  to  digest,  before  the  occasion  required  action, 
the  line  of  conduct  which  it  would  be  proper  to  observe.  Taught 
to  distrust  first  impressions,  he  sought  to  acquire  all  the  informa 
tion  which  was  attainable,  and  to  hear  without  prejudice  all  the 
reasons  which  could  be  urged  for  or  against  a  particular  measure. 
His  own  judgment  was  suspended  until  it  became  necessary  to 
determine,  and  his  decisions,  thus  maturely  made,  were  seldom, 
if  ever,  to  be  shaken.  His  conduct,  therefore,  was  systematic, 
and  the  great  objects  of  his  administration  were  steadily  pursued. 


LAFAYETTE    AND    WASHINGTON.  395 

Respecting,  as  the  first  magistrate  in  a  free  government  must 
ever  dp,  the  real  and  deliberate  sentiments  of  the  people,  their 
gusts  of  passion  passed  over  without  ruffling  the  smooth  surface 
of  his  mind.  Trusting  to  the  reflecting  good  sense  of  the  nation 
for  approbation  and  support,  he  had  the  magnanimity  to  pursue 
its  real  interests  in  opposition  to  its  temporary  prejudices,  and, 
though  far  from  being  regardless  of  popular  favor,  he  could 
never  stoop  to  retain,  by  deserving  to  lose  it.  In  more  instances 
than  one,  we  find  him  committing  his  whole  popularity  to  hazard, 
and  pursuing  steadily,  in  opposition  to  a  torrent,  which  would 
have  overwhelmed  a  man  of  ordinary  firmness,  that  course  which 
had  been  dictated  by  a  sense  of  duty.  In  speculation  he  was  a 
real  republican,  devoted  to  the  constitution  of  his  country,  and  to 
that  system  of  equal  political  rights  on  which  it  is  founded.  But 
between  a  balanced  republic  and  a  democracy,  the  difference  is 
like  that  between  chaos  and  order.  Real  liberty,  he  thought  was 
to  be  preserved  only  by  preserving  the  authority  of  the  laws,  and 
maintaining  the  energy  of  government.  Scarcely  did  society 
present  two  characters,  which,  in  his  opinion,  less  resembled 
each  other  than  a  patriot  and  a  demagogue.  No  man  has  ever 
appeared  upon  the  theatre  of  public  action  whose  integrity  was 
more  incompatible,  or  whose  principles  were  more  perfectly  free 
from  the  contamination  of  those  selfish  and  unworthy  passions 
Which  find  their  nourishment  in  the  conflicts  of  party.  Having 
no  views  which  required  concealment,  his  real  and  avowed  mo 
tives  were  the  same ;  and  his  whole  correspondence  does  not 
furnish  a  single  case,  from  which  even  an  enemy  would  infer  that 
he  was  capable,  under  any  circumstances,  of  stooping  t.o  the  em 
ployment  of  duplicity.  No  truth  can  be  uttered  with  more  con 
fidence,  than  that  his  ends  were  always  upright*  and  his  means 
always  pure.  He  exhibits  the  rare  example  of  a  politician,  to 
whom  wiles  were  absolutely  unknown,  and  whose  professions  to 
foreign  governments,  and  to  his  own  countrymen,  were  always 
sincere.  In  him  was  fully  exemplified  the  real  distinction 
which  forever  exists  between  wisdom  and  cunning,  and  the  im 
portance,  as  well  as  truth  of  the  maxim,  that  *  honesty  is  .the  best 
policy.'  If  WASHINGTON  possessed  ambition,  that  passion  was, 
in  his  bosom,  so  regulated  by  principles,  or  controlled  by  cir 
cumstances,  that  it  was  neither  vicious  nor  turbulent.  Intrigue 
was  never  employed  as  the  means  of  its  gratification,  nor  was 
personal  aggrandizement  its  object.  The  various  high,  and  im 
portant  stations  to  which  he  was  called  by  the  public  voice  were 
unsought  by  himself:  and  in  consenting  to  fill  them,  he  seems 
rather  to  have  yielded  to  a  general  conviction  that  the  interest 


396  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

would  be  thereby  promoted,  than  to  his  particular  inclination. 
Neither  the  extraordinary  partiality  of  the  American  people,  the 
extravagant  praises  which  were  bestowed  upon  him,  nor  the  in 
veterate  opposition  and  malignant  calumnies  which  he  expe 
rienced,  had  any  visible  influence  on  his  conduct.  The  cause  is 
to  be  looked  for  in  the  texture  of  his  mind.  In  him,  that  innate 
and  unassuming  modesty,  which  adulation  would  have  offended, 
which  the  voluntary  plaudits  of  millions  could  not  betray  into  in 
discretion,  and  which  never  obtruded  upon  others  his  claims  to 
superior  consideration,  was  happily  blended  with  a  high  and  cor 
rect  sense  of  personal  dignity,  and  with  a  just  consciousness  of 
that  respect  which  is  due  to  station.  Without  exertion,  he  could 
maintain  the  happy  medium  between  that  arrogance  which 
wounds,  and  that  facility  which  allows  the  office  to  be  degraded 
in  the  person  who  fills  it.  It  is  impossible  to  contemplate  the 
great  events  which  have  occurred  in  the  United  States,  under  the 
auspices  of  WASHINGTON,  without  ascribing  them,  in  some  meas 
ure,  to  him.  If  we  ask  the  causes  of  the  prosperous  issue  of  a 
war,  against  the  successful  termination  of  which  there  were  so 
many  probabilities ;  of  the  good  which  was  produced,  and  the 
ill  which  was  avoided  during  an  administration  fated  to  contend 
with  the  strongest  prejudices  that  a  combination  of  circumstances, 
and  of  passions  could  produce ;  of  the  constant  favor  of  the 
great  mass  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  of  the  confidence  which,  to 
to  the  last  moment  of  his  life,  they  reposed  in  him  —  the  answer, 
so  far  as  these  causes  may  be  found  in  his  character,  will  furnish 
a  lesson  well  meriting  the  attention  of  those  who  are  candidates 
for  fame.  Endowed  by  nature  with  a  sound  judgment,  and  an 
accurate,  discriminating  mind,  he  feared  not  that  laborious  atten 
tion  which  made  him  perfectly  master  of  those  subjects,  in  all 
their  relations,  on  which  he  was  to  decide  ;  and  this  essential 
quality  was  guided  by  an  unvarying  sense  of  moral  right,  which 
would  tolerate  the  employment  only  of  those  means  that  would 
bear  the  most  rigid  examination,  by  a  fairness  of  intention, 
which  neither  sought  nor  required  disguise,  and  by  a  purity  of 
virtue  which  was  not  only  untainted,  but  unsuspected.' 

Such  was  WASHINGTON  :  a  combination  and  a  form  where 
every  human  grace  and  virtue  appeared  to  have  set  an  indelible 
seal.  If  we  look  at  the  various  peculiarities  of  the  various  great 
men,  for  example,  of  the  ancient  republic,  we  shall  find  that  he 
embraced  the  good  ones  of  them  all : 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 
The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car, 
At  Battle's  call ; 


LAFAYETTE     AND    WASHINGTON.  397 

His  Scipio's  virtue ;  his,  the  skill, 
And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
And  pure  Aurelius'  love  divine  ; 
In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway, 

And  stern  command: 
The  faith  of  Constantine  —  ay,  more  — 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 

His  native  land.* 

But  the  crowning  glory  of  WASHINGTON'S  course,  was  its 
close.  Nothing  could  be  more  glorious  than  such  a  life,  but 
such  a  death.  Encircled  by  his  family ;  watched  by  eyes  that 
loved  him,  and  attended  with  tender  ministrations,  his  body 
parted  from  his  soul,  and  that  immortal  guest  of  his  earthly 
tabernacle  ascended  to  Heaven.  As  that  hour  approached,  his 
contentment  and  peace  were  indescribable.  He  saw,  if  his 
thoughts  were  then  momentarily  of  earth,  through  the  long  vista 
of  coming  years,  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  a  new  republic, 
made  free  by  his  hand ;  teeming  with  all  kinds  of  riches,  and 
filling  with  a  virtuous  and  well-governed  people.  How  beautiful 
a  prospect !  We  read,  of  late,  of  the  death  of  a  king  of  Europe, 
who,  when  on  his  dying  pillow,  caused  a  mirror  to  be  placed 
near  his  bed,  that  he  might  see  his  army  defile  in  their  glittering 
uniforms  before  him;  an  insubstantial  picture  —  mere  shadows 
on  glass,  showing  in  a  most  striking  emblem,  how  the  glory  of 
this  world  passeth  away.  But  WASHINGTON  had  retired  from 
his  armies  ;  throughout  the  land, 

4  Glad  Peace  was  tinkling  in  the  farmer's  bell, 
And  singing  with  the  reapers  :' 

and  he  had  no  regret  in  his  hour  of  departure. 

Can  we  scarcely  refrain  from  allowing  to  that  hour,  the  unut 
terable  splendor  of  an  apotheosis  ?  He  had  fought  his  warfare  ; 
he  had  left  his  testimony  for  the  rights  of  men,  and  obedience  to 
Heaven  ;  and  is  it  too  much  to  imagine  him  looking,  at  his  last 
moment,  toward  Heaven,  with  his  dying  eyes,  and  exclaiming 
with  chastened  rapture : 

'  WHAT  means  yon  blaze  on  high  ? 

The  empyrean  sky, 

Like  the  rich  veil  of  some  proud  fane,  is  rending ; 
I  see  the  star-paved  land, 
Where  all  the  angels  stand, 

*  Coplas  de  Manrique.. 


39S  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

Even  to  the  highest  height,  in  burning  rows  ascending  ; 

Some  with  their  wings  outspread, 

And  bo.wed  the  stately  head, 
As  on  some  errand  of  GOD'S  love  departing, 
Like  flames  from  evening  conflagration  starting; 
The  heralds  of  OMNIPOTENCE  are  they, 
And  nearer  earth  they  come,  to  waft  my  soul  away ." 


MEPHISTOPHILES    IN    NEW-YORK.  399 


MEPHISTOPHILES  IN  NEW- YORK. 


>iritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake,  and  when  we  sleep.' 

THE  BARD  OF  EDEN. 


WHEN  the  last  moon  was  new,  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  I  as 
cended  to  the  house-top  of  my  dwelling,  to  pass  an  hour  in  si 
lence  and  meditation.  The  solemn  skies,  fretted  with  dazzling 
stars,  and  'thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold,'  rose  sublime 
ly  above  me.  The  winds  of  autumn  surged  and  murmured  in  my 
ear,  as  they  swept  from  distant  woods  and  waters,  filling  me  with 
profound  and  lofty  imaginations.  There  are  few  things  so  im 
pressive  to  my  fancy  as  the  moaning  of  autumnal  winds.  They 
stir  the  painted  leaves  with  a  melancholy  rustle ;  the  faded  hon 
ors  of  the  summer  sink  upon  their  wings,  and  they  float  onward 
like  the  sighs  of  mourners  at  a  funeral,  or  the  voice  of  s6me 
viewless  spirit,  infusing  into  the  awe-struck  mind  a  vision  of 
eternity.  At  this  time,  I  was  peculiarly  chastened  and  subdued. 
I  thought  of  the  frailty  of  my  being ;  of  the  friends  I  had  lost, 
and  of  the  uncertain  tenure  wherewith  those  who  remained  were 
folded  to  my  bosom.  I  thought  of  the  re-visitation  of  immortal  in 
telligences  on  the  earth  ;  and  as  a  mass  of  many-colored  foliage, 
whose  tendrils  had  overrun  a  towering  edifice  near  me,  waved  to 
the  breeze,  meseemed  I  heard  the  accents  of  buried  friends, 
coming  back  to  my  hearing  as  in  vanished  days.  A  deep  feeling 
of  mystery  stole  upon  me  ;  a  sense  of  awe,  which  I  can  not  de 
scribe.  *  What,'  I  soliloquized,  'should  prevent  the  communion 
of  embodied  and  disembodied  souls  ?  Why  should  there  not 
come  to  us,  in  these  sad  and  spiritual  hours,  the  habitants  of 
other  and  brighter  worlds,  to  tell  us  that  beyond  this  dim  diurnal 
sphere,  where  change  and  decay  are  ever  occurring,  there  are 
places  where  the  loves  of  the  heart  are  not  broken  by  death ; 
where  the  flowers  are  forever  in  blossom,  and  no  eye  becomes 
dim  ?  It  is  a  sweet  and  tranquilizing  thought.  It  lifts  my  soul, 
and  I  feel  that  I  am  immortal.  Why  should  we  not  mingle  with 
the  departed,  in  spiritual  communion  ?  Do  they  not  come  to 
us  sometimes ;  are  they  not  present  with  us,  though  we  know  it 
not? 

How  often  from  the  steep 

Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket,  can  we  hear 
Celestial  voices  ? 


400  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

And  who  has  not  seemed  to  hear,  in  dreams  and  reveries,  the  ac 
cents  of  the  departed  ? 

Filled  with  these  thoughts,  I  sat  upon  the  house-top,  watching 
a  few  clouds  that  lay  along  the  West,  over  the  dim  hills  of  Jer 
sey.  They  were  of  curious  and  fantastic  shape,  continually 
changing,  like  the  palest  colors  of  a  kaleidoscope.  At  last,  one 
of  them  appeared  to  separate  in  a  waving  fleece  from  the  rest, 
and  to  approach  the  city.  Flakes  of  fairy  light  seemed  playing 
around  it  as  it  came,  and  as  it  passed  over  the  river,  the  reflec 
tion,  like  a  golden  column,  trembled  in  the  water.  A  light  mist 
soon  gathered  about  me  ;  an  odor,  like  the  pure  breath  which 
we  sometimes  inhale  on  high  mountains,  hovered  near ;  and  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  cloud  took  a  human  shape.  Huge 
wings  expanded  from  its  shoulders,  tinct  with  innumerable  hues ; 
form  and  features  were  established  before  me ;  and  a  Spirit,  full 
of  beauty  and  intelligence,  passed  by  my  side,  and  paused  where 
I  stood. 

1  Fear  not,'  said  the  Spirit,  in  tones  whose  awful  sweetness 
still  lingers  in  my  ear,  '  I  am  thy  better  angel.  Thou  thirstest 
for  knowledge  ;  thou  art  poring  evermore  over  ancient  books, 
and  uncouth  tomes  in  difficult  characters,  to  study  man.  Thou 
needest  better  helps  for  thy  desire.  Thou  hast  need  to  look, 
and  to  see  thy  fellows ;  to  compare  the  fate  of  those  whom  thou 
mayest  envy  or  pity,  with  thine  own  ;  then  wilt  thou  feel  at  thy 
heart  the  voice  of  contentment  and  the  charm  of  tranquility.' 

As  I  heard  these  words,  I  looked  up,  and  lo  !  the  Vision  was 
gone.  All  was  stillness  around  me  ;  but  by  my  side  there  lay  a 
telescope  of  pearl.  On  its  edge,  in  letters  of  light,  it  was  thus 
written  : 

1  Mortal !  by  this  gift  thou  art  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  un 
obstructed  sight.  That  which  bounds  and  circumscribes  the  ob 
servation  of  others,  shall  have  no  power  over  thine  own.  Walls 
and  gates  shall  melt  before  thy  glance,  as  thou  lookest :  the  hu 
man  heart  shall  be  unveiled  before  thee,  with  all  its  wonders. 
Gaze,  then,  mortal,  and  remember  as  thou  gazest,  that  thy  super 
natural  present  is  of  short  duration.' 

I  lifted  the  mysterious  object  with  a  trembling  hand.  I  raised 
it  to  my  eye,  and  directed  it  toward  the  street  beneath  me.  A 
flood  of  light  seemed  to  play  around  the  direction  in  which  I 
turned,  and  every  thing  became  visible.  The  Great  Thorough 
fare,  over  which  so  many  thousands  had  walked  during  the  day, 
was  solemn  and  deserted.  A  few  faint  lamps,  almost  obscured 
by  the  superior  radiance  which  flowed  from  my  instrument,  could 
be  perceived,  twinkling  in  feeble  rows  afar,  stretching  to  the 


MEPHISTOPHILES    IN    NEW-YORK.  401 

glimmering  waters  of  the  bay.  At  intervals  a  belated  reveler 
went  reeling  to  his  home. 

I  gazed  with  eager  attention.  Now  and  then,  I  could  per 
ceive  a  familiar  visage.  At  last  I  beheld,  standing  by  the  steps 
of  a  proud  mansion,  a  youth  whom  I  recognised  as  an  admirer 
of  one  of  its  young  inmates.  He  was  holding  by  the  railing  of 
the  steps,  and  looking  up  with  maudlin  eyes  toward  a  window 
whose  shutters  were  tightly  closed.  No  one  was  considered 
more  exemplary  in  life  and  conduct  than  himself.  He  was  a 
communicant  of  the  church,  a  devout  reader  of  prayers  on  Sun 
day,  and  one  whose  responses  in  the  litany  were  ever  solemn 
and  sonorous.  He  was  betrothed  to  the  damsel  of  whom  I  have 
spoken  ;  while  she,  unknowing  of  his  declining  goodness,  wasted 
upon  him  all  her  wealth  of  love. 

I  lifted  my  instrument  to  the  window  where  the  intoxicated 
youth  was  gazing.  The  wall  and  casement  melted  away  like  a 
scroll ;  and  I  saw,  kneeling  by  a  bed-side,  a  young  lady  in  pray 
er.  Her  hands  were  clasped  in  earnest  supplication ;  she  lifted 
her  dove-like  eyes  to  heaven,  and  implored  blessings  for  her  be 
loved  one,  until  her  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears.  Then  rising, 
she  sought  her  pillow,  and  shading  with  rich  locks  her  sweet  face, 
sunk  into  slumber. 

I  moved  my  glass  and  looked  yet  farther.  A  wall  melted 
again  from  my  vision ;  and  in  a  beautiful  apartment,  studded 
with  splendid  furniture,  a  lady  reclined  upon  an  ottoman,  rock 
ing  to  sleep  a  cherub  babe.  Her  tears  fell  fast,  as  she  mused  ; 
and  now  and  then  a  feeble  wail  escaped  her  lips,  half  lullaby, 
half  sigh.  Ever  and  anon,  the  infant  would  '  ope  its  violet  eyes,' 
and  smile  with  its  coral  mouth  upon  the  anxious  mother  who 
kept  a  vigil  by  his  side. 

'  Sweet  boy  !'  she  faltered,  '  would  that  thy  father  were  come!' 
and  then  she  kissed  the  babe,  with  fond  enthusiasm.  She  con 
tinued  alternately  to  sing  and  weep.  Soon,  I  beheld  a  door  open, 
and  the  husband  enter.  Care  sat  upon  his  features.  His  fore 
head  was  shadowed  as  with  a  cloud.  He  sat  down  by  his  wife 
and  child,  in  sullen  despondency. 

'Well,  my  love,'  he  said,  with  firm  and  resolute  accents,  '  a 
change  is  coming  upon  us.  Heretofore  we  have  been  affluent, 
luxurious,  and  as  the  world  said,  happy.  Gold  has  been  ours  in 
benevolent  profusion.  With  me,  how  prosperous  has  been  the 
world !  My  ships  have  returned  to  me  with  the  treasures  of 
other  climes  ;  enormous  profits  have  ensued  from  my  adventures  ; 
and  Hope  herself  has  never  belied  her  promise.  Now  we  are 
changed.  I  have  been  inspecting  my  accounts  ;  my  losses  have 

26 


402  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

quadrupled  my  gains  for  the  past  year ;  in  short,  Louisa,  we  are 
almost  beggars  !  What  shall  we  do  ¥  f 

'  We  will  trust  in  GOD,'  said  his  affectionate  wife,  pressing  her 
lips  to  his  forehead. 

*  Oh,  none  of  this  !'  replied  the  impatient  husband  ;  '  there  is  no 
balm  in  your  lips  to  heal  my  sorrow.  It  cures  not  my  distress, 
it  brightens  not  my  prospect.  We  have  too  much  of  loving  acts, 
while  poverty  stands  at  our  door.  I  like  not  your  inappropriate 
affection.  As  my  favorite  Middleton  sings  : 

1  Is  there  no  friendship  betwixt  man  and  wife, 
Unless  they  make  a  pigeon-house  of  wedlock, 
And  be  still  billing  ?' 

No,  Louisa,  take  little  Charles  to  his  couch,  and  do  you  retire 
also.  I  would  be  alone.  I  will  come  to  you  soon.  Leave  me 
alone.' 

i  The  wife  obeyed,  and  retired  to  her  apartment.  Then  I  saw  that 
the  countenance  of  the  husband  settled  into  a  look  of  solemn  and 
calm  resolve.  He  fastened  close  the  door  through  which  his  wife 
and  child  had  retired,  and  carefully  surveying  the  apartment,  drew 
a  pistol  from  his  bosom,  and  placed  it  on  the  table  before  him. 
His  face  grew  pale.  Desperate  thoughts  were  struggling  in  his 
mind.  '  Yes,'  he  muttered,  *  I  might  as  well  die  as  live.  She 
will  be  happier,  if  she  returns  a  widow  to  the  roof  of  her  revered 
parent,  than  she  would  to  remain  with  me  ;  a  broken  merchant, 
a  depressed,  degraded  citizen,  a  ruined  man.  Were  it  not  bet 
ter  that  I  sink  at  once  into  the  grave,  and  bury  my  sorrows  in  its 
bosom  ?  Oh  yes ;  for  there  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest.  No  treacherous  friends  can  there  re 
pay  my  goodness  with  ingratitude,  or  make  the  name  which 
has  been  recorded  for  their  benefit,  a  mockery  and  a  by-word. 
With  what  countenance  could  I  meet  my  astonished  friends,  af 
ter  the  hour  of  three  to-morrow !  I  should  shrink  from  every 
gaze  !  No  !  thanks  to  this  friendly  weapon,  I  can  escape  be 
yond  the  frowns  and  curses  of  man,  I  will  die  /' 

My  heart  knocked  audibly  against  my  ribs,  as  I  saw  the  mel 
ancholy  merchant  make  his  deadly  preparations.  He  cocked 
the  pistol ;  he  unbuttoned  his.  waistcoat,  and  parting  the  bosom 
of  his  shirt,  placed  the  fatal  instrument  against  his  heart.  He 
paused  a  moment.  *  I  must  write  to  Louisa  —  1  must  ask  her  for 
giveness.'  He  took  up  his  pen,  and  began  to  write  :  he  laid  it 
by  as  suddenly  as  he  grasped  it. 

A  beam  of  light  seemed  to  play  across  his  forehead  as  he  laid 
it  down.  *  There  is  one  hope,'  he  whispered,  with  a  kind  of 


MEPHISTOPHILES    IN    NEW-YORK.  403 

nervous  chuckle  in  his  throat,  '  one  hope  to  cling  to.  I  will  try 
its  promise ;  I  will  adopt  the  plan  it  has  suggested.  I  know  it 
is  desperate  ;  I  know  it  is  wicked ;  but  GOD  forgive  me  !  The 
insufferable  agony  which  tempts  me- — the  bitter  thoughts  which 
madden  my  spirit  —  may  they  excuse  me!' 

He  arose,  and  arranging  his  habiliments,  sought  the  street 
with  a  stealthy  and  hurried  tread.  No  barrier  concealed  him 
from  my  view.  I  followed  his  course  as  he  passed  through  sev 
eral  thoroughfares,  until  I  traced  him  to  a  vile  and  obscure  lane, 
where  he  paused  before  a  dwelling  far  too  elegant  for  the  neigh- 
hood  in  which  it  was  situated,  and  entered.  My  glance  was 
close  upon  his  foot-steps.  He  continued  his  way  through  a 
dusky  corridor,  and  knocked  loudly  at  a  glass  door,  before  which 
hung  a  curtain  of  blue  silk.  It  opened ;  and  what  a  scene  ap 
peared  !  Stretched  through  a  long  saloon,  were  some  twelve  or 
thirteen  card-tables,  each  surrounded  with  victims  and  victors. 
Groans,  curses,  and  laughter,  were  confusedly  mingled  together ; 
some  of  the  multitude  were  pale  with  rage  and  fear ;  others  al 
most  frantic  with  joy.  It  seemed  a  blending  of  Paradise  and 
Pandemonium. 

The  merchant  approached  one  of  the  tables,  and  obtaining  a 
seat,  took  out  his  pocket-book  containing  a  bank-note  of  twenty 
dollars.  '  It  is  all  on  earth,'  he  murmured,  with  a  sigh,  '  that  I 
can  call  my  own  !  If  I  should  lose,  then  I  myself  am  lost,  for 
ever  :  if  I  win,  I  live.  GOD  help  my  poor  wife  and  child  !' 

The  play  was  rouge  et  noir.  The  merchant  changed  his  note 
at  a  side  table,  and  bet  in  fives.  He  lost.  Fifteen  dollars  were 
swiftly  swept  away.  The  last  five  was  staked.  It  won  ! 

He  played  again  and  won  :  he  went  on.  Note  after  note  rus 
tled  in  his  hand :  he  redoubled  his  ventures,  and  the  duplicate 
harvests  still  continued  to  come  into  his  garner.  His  eye  beam 
ed,  his  cheek  was  flushed,  and  he  laughed  ever  and  anon  with  a 
convulsive  joy.  Thousands  on  thousands  rolled  into  his  posses 
sion.  His  partner  was  a  young  blood  about  town;  a  prodigal 
of  that  class  depicted  by  Thompson  in  his  Castle  of  Indolence : 

'  A  gaudy  spendthrift  heir, 

All  glossy,  gay,  enamelled  all  with  gold, 
The  silly  tenant  of  the  summer  air. 
In  folly  lost,  of  nothing  takes  he  care: 
Pimps,  lawyers,  stewards,  harlots,  flatterers  vile, 
And  thieving  tradesmen  him  among  them  share: 
His  father's  ghost  from  limbo  lake  the  while, 
Sees  this,  which  more  damnation  doth  upon  him  pile.' 

There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  success  of  the  merchant. 
Chance  was  his,  and  he  soon  received  all  his  opponent's  funds. 


404  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

'How  much  have  you  lost?'  he  inquired  of  the  loser. 

1  Oh,  curse  it !  — just  a  trifle.  I  had  between  eight  and  nine 
thousand  dollars  when  I  came  :  I  had  lost  only  a  few  hundreds 
when  you  entered.  You  have  the  rest,  and  my  good  Sir,  I 
wish  you  joy  of  it.  Thank  the  Lord,  I  have  got  enough  more.' 

'  Believe  me,'  said  the  merchant,  '  you  shall  not  lose  it.  I 
will  restore  it  to  you,  and  that  ere  long.  My  success  has  saved 
my  life,' he  whispered:  '  and  now  to  my  Charles  and  Louisa! 
Chance  has  preserved  me,  and  I  shall  not  be  a  bankrupt.  I 
shall  meet  my  demands  to-morrow  !  I  am  safe  !' 

He  burst  from  the  '  HelV  where  he  had  played,  and  hastened 
home.  That  door  which  closed  upon  him  did  not  hide  him  from 
my  gaze.  I  saw  him  hurry  to  the  bedside  of  his  wife  and  child, 
and  kneeling  there,  he  whispered  a  fervent  and  humble  prayer 

for  forgiveness  of  his  Maker. 

****** 

IT  was  his  first  game — but  not  his  last.  The  lapse  of  two 
weeks  saw  him  crowned  with  independence,  and  his  victim  clan 
destinely  paid.  Fortune  smiled  upon  his  sudden  purchase  and  dis 
posal  of  estates  ;  and  when  I  next  saw  him  by  day,  the  envy  of 
his  fellows,  and  apparently  the  happiest  of  his  kind,  I  thought, 
'  How  few  can  know  like  me,  that  but  so  lately  his  life  depended 
upon  the  hazard  of  a  cast !'  .  .  .  AND  what  a  hazard  was 
that !  Gambling  is  a  magical  stream,  in  which,  if  you  but  wet 
the  sole  of  your  foot,  you  must  needs  press  on,  until  the  waters 
have  closed  over  you  forever.  That  husband  and  father  died  a 
despairing,  wretched  gamester,  leaving  his  family  a  prey  to  pov 
erty  and  sorrow. 


LANGUAGE.  405 


LANGUAGE. 

THE  capabilities  of  our  vernacular  are  not  duly  appreciated. 
Without  going  back  to  the  simple  strength  and  sublimity  of  the 
mater  languarum,  or  discussing  the  merits  of  any  other  tongue 
that  has  prevailed  since  the  brick-layers  and  stone-masons  of 
Babel  fell  into  a  state  of  strike  —  either  for  want  of  order, 
or  for  higher  wages  —  we  venture  to  observe  that  the  English 
tongue  is  the  richest  in  the  world.  Its  sublimity  is  *  compound 
ed  from  many  simples,'  and  sources,  as  any  one  may  know  by 
consulting  the  pages  of  that  burly  and  bilious  philologist,  Sam. 
Johnson.  Latin,  Greek,  Saxon,  German,  and  eke  the  French, 
may  especially  be  found  in  the  garner  of  its  circumscription.  It 
is  capable  of  infinite  diversity.  The  multitude  of  its  synonyms, 
the  full  array  of  its  adverbs  and  adjectives,  render  it  indeed  the 
best  of  languages. 

We  have  said  thus  much,  in  order  to  pave  the  way  for  a  few 
specimens  of  the  graceful  expansion  which  a  short  phrase  in 
English  may  be  made  to  undergo.  Refinement  seems  to  be  the 
increasing  passion  of  the  time,  and  language  is  forced  to  partake 
of  its  prevalence.  Several  of  our  contemporaries  have  caught 
the  polishing  mania,  and  the  clothing  of  common  thoughts  in 
holiday  suits,  and  of  setting  some  dwarf  of  a  phrase  upon  the 
stilts  of  embellishment,  have  become  universal. 

We  think  that  we  were  the  first  to  give  an  impetus  to  this  in 
novation  on  the  occidental  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It  is  not  so 
generally  bruited  as  it  should  have  been,  either  on  the  continent 
of  America,  or  throughout  the  boundaries  of  Europe,  or  in  Ispa 
han,  Jeddo,  Jerusalem,  or  Bagdad,  that  WE  first  refined  that 
well-known  adage  of  'proceeding  the  entire  swine'  —  the  indi- 
visum  porculum.  That  stupendous  conception  was  our  own ; 
and  to  whomsoever  may  charge  us  therewith,  we  own  the  soft 
impeachment,  looking  to  the  public  to  protect  our  bays. 

Hereunto  we  append  some  fresh  doings,  of  a  similar  kind. 
Two  of  the  saws  have  exotic  trimmings ;  the  others  are  indige 
nous.  We  grew  them : 

ORIGINAL.  Go  to  the  Devil  and  shake  yourself. 

IMPROVED.  Proceed  to  the  Arch-enemy  of  Man  and  agitate 
your  person. 

OR.   Of  one  who  squints.     He  looks  two  ways  for  Sunday. 

IMP.  One  who,  by  reason  of  the  adverse    disposition  of  his 


406  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

optics  —  a  natal  defect — is  forced  to  scrutinize  in  duple  direc 
tions  for  the  Christian  Sabbath. 

OR.  Don't  count  your  chickens  before  they  are  hatched. 

IMP.  Enumerate  not  your  adolescent  pullets,  ere  they  cease 
to  be  oviform. 

OR.  Sauce  for  the  goose,  is  sauce  for  the  gander. 

IMP.  The  culinary  adornments  which  suffice  for  the  female 
of  the  race  Anser,  may  be  relished  also  by  the  masculine  adult 
of  the  same  species. 

OR.  Let  well  enough  alone. 

IMP.  Suffer  a  healthful  sufficiency  to  remain  in  solitude. 

OR.  None  so  deaf  as  them  that  won't  hear. 

IMP.  No  persons  are  obtuse  in  their  auricular  apprehension, 
equal  to  those  who  repudiate  vocal  incomes  by  adverse  inclina 
tion. 

OR.  Put  a  beggar  on  horseback,  and  he  will  ride  to  the  devil. 

IMP.  Establish  a  mendicant  on  the  uppermost  section  of  a 
charger,  and  he  will  transport  himself  to  Apollyon. 

OR.  Accidents  will  happen  in  the  best  of  families. 

IMP.  Disasters  will  eventuate  even  in  households  of  the  su- 
premest  integrity. 

OR.  A  still  sow  drinks  the  most  swill. 

IMP.  *  The  taciturn  female  of  the  porcine  genus  imbibes  the 
richest  nutriment.' 

OR.  The  least  said,  the  soonest  mended. 

IMP.  The  minimum  of  an  offensive  remark  is  cobbled  with 
the  greatest  promptitude. 

OR.  'T  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good. 

IMP.  That  gale  is  truly  diseased,  which  puffeth  benefactions 
to  nonentity. 

OR.  A  stitch  in  time,  saves  nine. 

IMP.  The  '  first  impression'  of  a  needle  on  a  rent  obviateth  a 
nine-fold  introduction. 

OR.  A  nod 's  as  good  as  a  wink,  to  a  horse  that  is  n't  blind. 

IMP.  'An  abrupt  inclination  of  the  head,  is  equivalent  to  a 
contraction  of  the  eye,  to  a  steed  untroubled  with  obliquity  of 
vision.' 

OR.  'T  is  a  a  wise  child  that  knows  its  own  father. 

IMP.  That  juvenile  individual  is  indeed  sage,  who  possesses 
authentic  information  with  respect  to  the  identity  of  his  paternal 
derivative. 

OR.  There's  no  accounting  for  taste. 

IMP.  The  propensities  of  the  palate  defy  jurisdiction. 

OR.  Two  and  two  make  four. 


LANGUAGE.  407 

IMP.  (As  per  Sam.  J.)  The  number  four  is  a  certain  aggre 
gate  of  units:  and  all  numbers  being  the  repetition  of  an  unit — 
which,  though  not  a  number  in  itself,  is  the  parent,  root,  or  origi 
nal  of  all  number — four  is  the  denomination  assigned  to  a  cer 
tain  number  of  such  repetitions. 

OR.  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire. 

IMP.  The  triple  transmission  of  a  household,  with  chattels, 
from  one  domicil  to  another,  is  as  vicious  as  a  conflagration. 

Here  we  pause.  For  the  nonce,  our  speculation  has  done  its 
worst. 


408  PROSE    MISCELLANIES* 


FREE    TRANSLATIONS. 


!Multa  absurda  fingunt.5 

CAMBESARIUS; 


WHO  has  not  amused  himself  in  his  classic  hours,  in  making 
free  translations?  There  is  a  kind  of  intoxication  in  it.  The 
Oxford  student  who  completed  a  travestie  of  all  the  books  in 
Homer's  Iliad,  must  have  had  a  glorious  time  of  it ;  for  Mel- 
esigenes  was  not  beyond  the  power  of  ridicule,  and  Socrates  long 
remembered  the  quizzing  of  Aristophanes.  Some  of  those  old 
and  choice  spirits  in  the  Spectator — Johnson,  Addison,  and 
their  coterie  —  with  all  their  veneration  for  the  blind  Bard  of 
Greece,  could  not  refrain  from  showing  up  his  occasional  '  sink 
ings  in  poetry.'  They  cite  the  passage  where  he  compares  a 
warrior  in  the  midst  of  a  desperate  contest,  to  a  jackass  surround 
ed  in  a  corn-field,  with  peculiar  pleasure,  as  a  scrap  of  pure 
bathos.  It  is  Shakspeare's,  and  of  course  Nature's,  truth,  that 
no  earthly  thing,  however  good,  is  insusceptible  of  some  gross 
admixture  ;  and  I  think  the  mode  in  which  college  boys  murder 
the  dead  languages,  (forgive  the  bull,)  is,  so  far  at  least,  a 
complete  verification  of  a  saying  quoted  in  substance  from  one 
who,  according  to  Ben  Johnson,  understood  '  small  Latin  and 
less  Greek.' 

I  am  getting  deplorably  rusty  in  my  memory  of  free  transla 
tions.  My  brain  used  to  be  stored  with  them ;  yet  I  bethink  me 
now  of  but  one.  It  was  made  by  an  unhewn  fellow,  in  his 
freshman  year  ;  and  I  have  heard  it  quoted  by  my  friend  Lemuel 
Turquoise,  (the  finest  observer  of  the  burlesque  in  all  my  clique,) 
with  an  orotund  fulness  that  would  have  pleased  the  discrimina 
ting  and  subtle  ear  of  RUSH  himself.  Here  it  is  : 

'Old  Grimes  is  mortuus,  that  agathos  old  anthropos  — 

Nunquam  videbimus  eum  plus  ; 
Usus  est  to  habere  an  old  togam, 
All  ante-buttoned  down!' 

Verses  of  this  kind  are  arbitrary  in  their  construction,  and  the 
pause  or  accent  can  rest  anywhere  the  reader  chooses  to  fix  it. 
At  the  moment  I  record  this,  many  other  renderings  come  sud 
denly  to  my  mind  5  but  such  reminiscences,  though  indescribably 


FREE    TRANSLATIONS.  409 

pleasing  to  me,  have  no  charm  for  the  public.  I  associate  them 
with  the  hearty,  laughing  faces  of  school  companions  who  have 
been  swept  from  my  side  by  the  course  of  circumstances  and 
time ;  some  of  whom  are  pursuing  their  destiny  in  other  lands ; 
some  dead;  some  on  the  wave,  in  the  service  of  their  country. 
How  soon  do  our  better  hours  and  opportunities  wane  into  things 
that  were  ! 

Among  the  free  translators  of  small  Latin  scraps  in  modem 
times,  I  reckon  Thomas  Hood  to  be  the  very  best.  He  is  him 
self  alone.  In  his  annual  he  furnishes  many,  and  they  are  al 
ways  good.  They  generally  serve  as  mottos  for  pictures.  I 
recollect  a  few  of  these,  and  will  set  them  down.  One  of  his 
plates  represents  a  female  cook,  *  doing'  some  meat  in  a  frying- 
pan.  The  fat,  or  grease,  has  increased  to  the  overflow,  and  the 
whole  dish  is  in  a  blaze.  The  brawny  arms  of  the  maid  are  uplift 
ed,  and  her  countenance  indicates  the  utmost  perplexity  and  con 
sternation.  The  motto  is,  l  Ignis  YAT-UUS  /'  Another  sets  forth 
a  mad  bull,  with  his  tail  curled  in  air,  his  nostrils  expanded,  and 
his  whole  port  bewildered.  He  is  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of 
gaping  rustics.  Motto,  '  De  Lunatico  Inquirendo  /'  In  one  of 
these  sketches,  a  specimen  of  French  is  given.  An  English  cock 
ney  is  depicted  riding  in  a  private  coach,  on  a  French  highway. 
He  is  passing  a  field  of  oats ;  and  the  postillion,  accidentally 
stretching  out  his  whip  in  that  direction,  says  to  his  horses, 
'  Vite — vite  !' — (quick',  equivalent  in  this  case  to  '  Go  ahead  !') 
'  No,'  says  the  cockney,  thinking  himself  addressed,  and  the  field 
the  subject,  *  no,  them  ar'nt  w'eat  —  them's  7*oats  !' 

Some  odd  translations  have  been  done  into  French,  from  the 
English.  One  of  the  Parisian  authors,  in  rendering  the  passage, 

'Out,  brief  candle, 

Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,'  etc., 

from  Shakspeare,  gave  it  thus : 

*  Sortez,  sortez,  vous  courte  chandelle !' 
Namely : 

'  Get  out,  you  short  candle  /' 

But  I  am  persuaded  that  the  French  make  fewer  blunders 
than  their  neighbors  across  the  channel.  A  regular  John  Bull, 
wishing  to  shut  the  mouth  of  a  drunken  hack-driver  at  Calais, 
said  to  him  in  a  pompous  and  menacing  voice  :  '  Tenez  votre 
langue  :  vous  etes  en  liqueur  !'  The  equivalent  English  of  these 
words,  rendered  as  they  stand,  is  ludicrous  enough. 


410 


PROSE     MISCELLANIES 


Of  all  the  free  translations,  however,  that  I  ever  met  with, 
commend  me  to  a  work  recently  published  in  London,  from  the 
pen  of  one  John  Bellenden  Ker,  Esq.,  A.  S.  S.,  etc.,  entitled, 
'  An  Essay  on  the  Archaiology  of  Popular  Phrases.'  Having 
been  favored  with  this  work  by  a  transatlantic  friend,  I  take  the 
liberty  of  presenting  a  few  specimens  of  the  author's  stupid  in 
genuity  to  the  American  public.  He  gives  a  large  number  of 
nursery  ballads  and  common  adages ;  and  by  the  most  distorted 
construction,  traces  them  either  to  the  Anglo  or  Low  Saxon. 
The  absurdity  of  these  translations  constitutes  tr\e  only  claim  to 
attention,  preferred  by  this  queer  etymological.  Nothing  can  be 
more  laughable  than  his  derivations,  several  of  which  I  proceed 
to  serve  up.  The  first  I  select  is  the  common  phrase,  '  Oh,  the 
pride  of  a  cobbler's  dog.'  Mr.  Ker  refers  it  to  the  Saxon  :  '  Hoe 
die  prijckt  op  de  Jcopplers  doogh  /'  i.  e.  'Oh,  how  this  person 
prides  himself!'  'He  is  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse.'  '  Het  is 
alpur  ah  hij  ghierc  mocs :'  i.  e.  '  He  is  reduced  to  be  importu 
nate  for  victuals.'  '  He  does  not  care  two  straws  for  her.'  '  Het 
deught  met  gar  toe's  troren  vor  hcer  /'  i.  e.  '  It  is  not  worth  while 
to  grieve  for  her  !' 

I  can  not  refrain  from  giving  one  specimen  of  the  Nursery 
Ballads,  with  Mr.  Ker's  original  definition. 


Cock-a-doodle-doo  — 
Dame  has  lost  her  shoe : 
Master's  broke  his  fiddle-stick, 
And  don't  know  what  to  do !' 


Gack  en  duijdt  het  t'u, 

Di'em  aes  lost  ter  s'du  ; 

Mij  aes  daer's  brck  es  vied  t'el  stick 

End  doedt  nauw  wet  tet  u  !' 


The  definition  is  :   '  Dolt  of  a  peasant !  — your  life  is  a  hell  upon 
earth ;  you  are  so  foolish  as  to  delight  in  hard  work,'  etc. 

From  the  quizzical  parodies  which  this  work  has  excited 
abroad,  I  subjoin  the  following.  It  is  by  the  editor  of  the  London 
Examiner,  who,  after  some  study  of  Mr.  Ker's  glossaries,  felt 
himself  aufait  at  his  system  of  etymology.  He  gives  this  liberal 
interpretation  of '  God  save  the  King.'  The  Saxon,  if  it  be  not 
as  pure,  reads  at  at  least  as  well  as  Ker's  : 


1  GOD  save  great  George  our  King, 
Long  live  our  noble  King, 

God  save  the  King  ! 
Send  him  victorious, 
Long  to  reign  over  us, 

God  save  the  King !' 


Goets  aefgregte  Gorgch  oorKynck ! 
Lon  glyff  oor  nobblekin  ; 

Goets  aef  thee  king! 
Sen  dym  vych  toe  rye  oose, 
Lonkturane  o  vyrues, 

Goets  aef  theeking !' 


Definition— (free  !)  —  'Foolish  is  the  idea  of  a  government  com 
pounded  of  a  king,  an  hereditary  peerage,  and  a  popular  repre 
sentative  assembly ;  it  is  foolish  altogether  !  Under  such  a  state 
of  things,  the  taxes  become  insupportable,  and  the  people  are  be- 


FREE    TRANSLATIONS 


411 


sotted  by  the  priesthood,  and  live  miserably  under  bad  laws  ;  it 
is  foolish  altogether!' 

Not  content  with  Europe  as  the  arena  of  his  researches,  Mr. 
Ker  has  embraced  America  in  his  derivative  enterprise.  Here  is  a 
phrase  that  he  has  most  learnedly  illustrated  ;  one  that  until  quite 
lately  was  never  heard  of  out  of  the  United  States.  If  Mr.  Ker's 
humbug  were  not  absurd,  it  would  be  criminal.  Strange  to  say, 
it  has  many  implicit  believers  : 

*  He  went  the  whole  hog'  —  in  the  sense  of  he  went  the  whole  length,  took 
a  deep  interest  in,  made  it  his  own  business:  'Hij  wendt  de  hold  hoogh:' 
i.  e.  'He  turned  the  feelings  of  a  friend  to  the  subject  in  question.' 

The  author  quotes  from  Mr.  Clayton's  speech  in  the  United 
States  Senate  in  support  of  his  etymology. 

Encouraged  by  our  writer's  example,  I  offer  one  or  two  trans 
lations,  a  la  mode  Ker.  I  take  a  revolutionary  saying,  and  one 
verse  of  Yankee  Doodle.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  mention  the  de 
rivative  language,  only  so  far  as  to  say,  that  it  is  a  mixture  of 
Mormon  and  Choctaw.  I  will  merely  remark,  for  the  benefit  of 
philologists,  that  the  parlance  is  not  extant  in  the  schools : 

4  The  times  that  tried  men's  souls:'  '  Thett  ymms  then1  dried  mens  'oels  ;' 
i.  e.  '  The  time  when  we  thrashed  our  invaders  and  gained  a  republic.' 


Corn-stalks  twist  your  hair, 
Cart-wheels  go  round  ye ; 
Fiery  dragons  carry  ye  off, 
And  mortar-pestle  pound  ye  !' 


1  Koern  stoelks  twijsdt  y'er  aer, 
Kar  t'oeils  goer  un  ghe ; 
Phy  ried  rag  undts  kar  e  oopgh, 
An  dmor  t'arp  oestil  poenndjie!' 


On  the  whole,  from  the  evidences  that  I  meet  with  daily,  I  am 
persuaded  that  free  translations  are  on  the  increase.  Their  utility 
may  be  judged  of  from  the  foregoing  specimens.  That  they  are 
amusing,  admits  of  no  doubt :  but  there  are  many  who  will  reject 
them  altogether,  as  things  that  have  no  mojal,  and  as  possessing 
nothing  that  one  can  go  about  to  prove. 


412  PROSE    MISCELLANIES 


AMERICAN   PTYALISM. 


« I  MUST  humbly  crave  leave  hereinne,  to  be  delivered  of  a  bouldenesse,  where 
with  my  pen  is  in  travaile.'  SIR  HY.  WOTTON'S  «  RELIQUIAE.* 


BIG  words,  now-a-days,  are  all  the  rage,  and  I  flatter  myself 
that  I  have  selected  a  pretty  tall  one  for  this  article.  It  stands  as 
the  expositor  of  an  alarming  epidemic  which  has  long  prevailed 
in  our  well-beloved  country  ;  and  for  which  the  land  is  cursed 
by  travelling  cockneys,  and  cosmopolitan  old  women.  Ptyalism, 
gentle  reader,  is  '  the  effusion  of  spittle,'  as  is  worthily  illustrated 
by  that  venerable  lexicographer,  Sam.  Johnson ;  the  prince  of 
his  tribe,  and  the  sometime  lion  to  that  jackal,  Boswell.  This  is 
my  theme ;  it  is  the  evil  whereupon  I  design  to  expatiate ;  and 
I  can  say  with  my  motto-maker,  that  it  is  one  which  I  have  not 
undertaken  out  of  any  wanton  pleasure  in  mine  own  pen ;  nor 
truly  without  pondering  with  myself  beforehand,  what  censures  I 
might  incur ;  for  I  know  that  the  object  against  which  the  lance 
of  my  reprobation  is  to  be  tilted,  is  grievously  circumvested  with 
the  affection  of  habit  and  the  sanctity  of  time.  I  mean  not  to  be 
a  sweeping  opponent,  but  a  commentator  merely.  To  advocate 
the  ptyalism  of  this  nation  would  be  '  a  sin  to  man,'  for  an 
amendment  in  the  custom  is  most  imperiously  demanded. 

Whether  the  corporeal  juices  are  more  abundant  in  the  citizens 
of  the  United  States  than  in  the  people  of  other  countries,  it  is 
not  pertinent  just  now  to  inquire.  At  all  events,  they  are  less 
regarded ;  for  we  are  said  to  be  the  most  notoriously  salivating 
nation  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  But  the  custom  is  as  old  as 
time.  We  hear  of  it  in  the  first  origin  of  our  religion.  It  was 
by  spittle  that  the  blind  man  was  healed  with  the  clay  which  our 
SAVIOUR  applied  to  his  eyes ;  and  in  many  countries  it  has  been  in 
vested  with  peculiar  sanctity.  In  Scotland ,  as  may  be  learned  from 
works  relating  to  its  popular  superstitions,  the  virtue  of  spittle  has 
long  been  held  in  high  estimation  by  that  proverbially  neat  and 
thrifty  people.  Authors  have  thrown  much  light  upon  this  sub 
ject.  They  prove  that  the  properties  of  the  human  saliva  have 
enjoyed  singular  notice  in  both  sacred  and  profane  history. 
Pliny  devotes  an  entire  chapter  in  describing  its  efficacy  among 
the  ancient  pagans,  with  whom  it  was  esteemed  an  antidote  to 
fascination,  a  preservative  against  contagion,  a  counteracting 


AMERICAN   PTYALISM.  413 

influence  upon  poisons,  and  a  source  of  strength  in  fisticuffs. 
Some  of  these  uses,  the  moderns  retain.  When  they  fight,  they 
spit  in  their  hands  ;  and  they  indulge  in  the  same  process  under 
the  humiliation  of  defeat.  Your  Irish  or  English  servant  will 
spit  on  an  eleemosynary  shilling ;  for  he  thinks  that  it  blesses  the 
coin.  In  the  country  of  the  former,  it  is  said  to  be  an  invariable 
habit  among  the  peasant  girls,  whenever  they  fling  away  the 
combings  of  their  hair.  There  is  sometimes  a  dignity,  or  grandeur, 
and  sometimes  a  solemnity,  in  the  custom.  I  always  think  well  of 
those  ladies  one  meets  in  romances,  when  they  express  themselves 
in  that  way.  Who  has  not  joined  in  the  feeling  of  Rebecca  and 
Ivanhoe,  when  the  lustful  templar,  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert,  in 
vades  her  in  her  tower,  to  compass  her  dishonor,  and  when  she, 
standing  on  the  parapet,  ready  to  spring  from  that  lofty  height 
into  the  court-yard  below,  says  to  the  craven  knight,  with  a  look 
of  withering  contempt :  *  I  spit  at  thee ;  I  defy  thee  !  Thanks 
to  him  who  reared  this  dizzy  tower  so  high,  I  fear  thee  not ! 
Advance  one  step  nearer  to  my  person,  and  I  will  leap,  to  be 
crushed  out  of  the  very  form  of  humanity  j  in  the  depth  beneath  1* 
The  reader  almost  sees  the  scornful  foam  escaping  from  the 
curled  and  beautiful  lip  of  the  Jewess,  and  is  himself  inclined  to 
suit  his  action  to  the  thought.  Our  ideas  of  propriety  are  de 
rived,  to  a  greater  extent  than  we  are  aware  of,  from  novels ; 
and  if  their  pages  may  be  relied  on,  their  heroines  (being  always 
encompassed  by  scoundrels  whom  they  have  much  ado  to  keep 
at  a  proper  distance)  must  have  been  spitting  at  their  detested 
supernumerary  lovers  about  half  the  time.  Contempt  is  well 
expressed  by  that  action,  and  by  the  word.  There  is  innate 
disdain  in  the  saliva  itself.  It  leaves  the  haughty  lip  of  the  of 
fended  one,  and  lies  before  the  contemned  person — perhaps 
upon  his  beard  —  like  a  gage  of  war,  as  potent  as  the  glove  in 
the  days  of  the  Crusades.  In  his  work  of  '  England  and  the 
English,'  the  author  of  Pelham  alludes  to  one  Westmacott,  (who 
seems  a  common  libeller  in  London,)  under  the  name  of  Sneak, 
in  the  following  expressive  phrase  :  '  His  soul  rots  in  his  profes 
sion,  and  you  spit  when  you  hear  his  name  !'  Among  the  va 
rious  and  opposing  inferences  derivable  from  the  custom  and  the 
use  of  the  word,  one  is,  that  saliva  is  inherently  contemptible ; 
and  if  so,  is  it  not  a  noble  proceeding  to  dispossess  one's  self  as 
much  as  possible  of  that  which  is  unworthy  ?  Is  this  a  non 
sequitur  ? 

In  one  of  the  remote  islets  of  Scotland,  spitting  into  the  grave 
forms  a  part  of  the  funeral  ceremony.  Relations  and  friends 
gather  round  the  narrow  mansion  of  the  departed,  and  each  one 


414  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

ejects  the  salivary  tribute  of  sorrowful  remembrance.  « Happy,' 
says  the  old  adage,  '  is  the  new  grave  that  the  rain  rains  on ;' 
and  in  the  island  of  which  1  speak,  perhaps  the  saying  may  be, 
*  Beloved  is  the  dust  that  we  spit  upon.'  Anciently,  the  subject 
of  Optics  was  illustrated  only  by  those  who  possessed  ample 
knowledge  in  relation  to  the  qualities  of  saliva.  The  popular 
oculist  was  one  who  saw, 

'or  fancied,  in  his  dreaming  mood, 

All  the  diseases  that  the  spittles  know.' 

Even  modern  opticians,  in  their  discussions  upon  the  eye,  have 
recommended  a  research  of  the  old  schoolmen's  tomes,  that  it 
may  be  decided  whether  any  *  solvent,  sanative,  or  medicament,' 
connected  with  saliva,  and  lost  to  the  oculists  of  the  present  day, 
was  not  in  vogue  of  yore.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  discuss  the 
virtue  of  that  which  I  esteem  the  parent  of  a  vice. 

I  look  upon  TOBACCO,  in  all  its  shapes  and  varieties,  as  the 
prime  cause  of  the  very  extensive  ptyalism  which  prevails  in 
this  nation.  It  is  passing  strange  that  this  article  ever  came  to 
be  beloved.  It  is  wonderful,  that  a  weed  which  is  in  itself,  in 
its  original  state,  acrid  and  disagreeable,  and  which  contains 
poison  as  deadly  as  the  sting  of  a  scorpion,  should  have  pushed 
its  way  into  use,  until  it  has  become  a  matter  of  traffic  in  all 
quarters  of  the  world.  1  can  hardly  imagine  how  it  ever  spread 
its  magic  beyond  the  wigwam  of  the  Indian,  or  came  to  mingle 
its  fumes  with  anything  but  the  council-smokes  of  the  aborigines, 
in  the  pathless  forests  of  the  west.  It  has  encountered  and 
conquered  every  obstacle ;  the  book  which  James  I.  fulminated 
against  it;  the  opposition  of  Papal  bulls,  of  Transylvanian  edicts, 
of  Persian  anathemas ;  and  by  the  aid  of  Nicot,  with  Catharine 
de  Medicis,  (who  may  perhaps  have  '  chawed,9)  and  the  great 
crowd  of  amateurs  who  continue  to  patronize  it,  the  whole  eastern 
continent  glories  in  its  use,  and  is  loud  in  its  praise.  Since  the 
Haytien  began  to  draw  its  blue  wreaths  through  his  derivative 
pipe,  as  he  watched  the  distant  sea,  dancing  to  the  balmy  winds 
from  the  palm-groves  of  his  native  land,  the  world  has  bowed  to 
the  Nicotian  weed.  From  Iceland  to  the  tropics,  and  from 
Jerusalem  to  the  Pacific,  it  is  in  request.  Protean  in  its  forms, 
it  intoxicates  in  pigtail,  twist,  or  plug  ;  in  cigar  or  snuff.  In  the 
latter  substance,  how  many  a  lofty  nostril  has  it  pleased,  how 
many  old  women  and  great  men  has  it  delighted !  It  was  the  last 
comfort  of  Napoleon,  when  he  cried  '  Sauve  quipeutT  at  Water 
loo,  and  rode  through  bloody  battalions  of  the  wounded  and 
dying,  away  from  the  victorious  legions  of  Wellington.  When 


AMERICAN    PTYALISM.  415 

an  old  Irish  vixen  in  a  London  police-office  was  charged  by  her 
husband,  to  whom  she  had  been  rebellious,  in  a  row,  with  taking 
two  ounces  of  snuff  per  diem,  what  was  her  answer?  'Lawful 
powers,  yer  Warship  !  What  is  two  ounces  of  blissid  snuff,  to  a 
poor  onfortinit  woman,  as  gives  suck  to  two  childer?'  It  was  an 
appeal  that  went  home  at  once  to  the  proboscis  of  the  magistrate, 
and  the  woman  was  discharged. 

Much  as  tobacco  has  been  lauded,  snuff  has  perhaps  received 
a  greater  share  of  eulogy.  Even  the  organ  to  whose  pleasure 
it  ministers  has  been  addressed,  among  many  others,  by  the 
facetious  author  of  '  Absurdities,'  as  the  source  of  his  supremest 
rapture.  Hear  him  : 

'KNOWS  he  that  never  took  a  pinch, 
Nosey,  the  pleasure  thence  which  flows  ? 
Knows  he  the  titillating  joy 
Which  my  nose  knows  ? 
Oh,  Nose !  I  am  as  proud  of  thee, 
As  any  mountain  of  its  snows: 
I  gaze  on  thee,  and  feel  the  joy 
A  Roman  knows !' 

But  this  is  an  episode,  since  snuff  is  not  directly  consociated 
with  '  the  effusion  of  spittle.'  Tobacco  is.  Who  chews,  and 
smokes,  and  salivates  not?  Who  ever  attended  a  church,  a 
theatre,  a  political  meeting,  or  any  assembly,  legislatures  even, 
and  did  not  see  the  effects  of  tobacco !  Who  has  not  witnessed 
them  at  parties,  at  balls — anywhere,  and  everywhere?  How 
many  divines  and  statesmen  have  I  known,  the  misanthropic 
corners  of  whose  lips  exhibited  the  stained  and  pursed-up 
wrinkles  of  tobacco  !  Your  student  and  your  '  blood,'  (ruminating 
bipeds,  who  smoke  or  chew,)  expectorate  themselves  away,  and 
look  like  old  men  long  before  they  are  forty. 

Yet  it  is  the  abuse,  rather  than  the  use,  of  tobacco,  of  which  I 
complain.  Under  the  rose,  I  have  some  respect  myself  for  a 
cigar;  and  I  do  not  object  to  some  kinds  of  scented  snuff.  It 
is  pleasant  to  smell  the  airy  whiffs,  circling  around  one's  contem 
plative  nose,  and  to  enjoy  the  excitement  of  a  sneeze.  But 
moderation  should  guide  us  in  these  matters ;  for  ptyalism  is  so 
much  of  a  habit,  that  in  my  opinion  it  might  be  abated  two  thirds, 
in  every  one  of  our  countrymen ;  and  I  think  that  many  valuable 
lives  would  thus  be  lengthened. 

With  regard  to  expectoration,  I  would  say,  that  when  'tis 
done,  it  would  be  well  if  it  were  done  secretly.  I  am  no  advo 
cate  of  the  English  custom  of  salivating  into  the  handkerchief, 
and  carrying  in  a  pocket  the  harvest  of  one's  palatic  department* 


416  PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 

Neither  do  I  think  that,  we  should  care  a  tobacco-stopper  what 
foreign  zantippes  or  scribblers  think  of  the  custom,  only  so  far 
as  their  strictures  may  seem  to  be  just.  In  truth,  after  the  false 
hoods  with  which  the  European  public  has  been  deluged  re 
specting  our  manners,  the  mere  sight  of  an  English  tourist,  male 
or  female,  in  this  country,  is  enough  to  make  an  American  citizen 
spit  from  sheer  disgust.  We  mean  those  tourists  who  grumble 
when  they  land  ;  grumble  their  six  weeks'  transit  through  the 
republic,  and  then  grumble  themselves  into  a  packet-cabin,  and 
go  home  to  make  a  grumbling  book.  It  is  not  surprising  that 
folk  like  these  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  ptyalism.  Every  such 
raven  of  passage  is  a  walking  ptysmagogue,  and  excites  the  very 
discharges  that  are  so  vehemently  condemned. 

There  is  a  juste  milieu  in  this  habit,  which,  as  a  nation,  we 
have  not  hit  as  yet ;  though  we  are  much  nearer  to  it  than  the 
spittle-pocketing  kingdom  which  has  furnished  us  with  so  many 
peripatetic  philosophers  on  the  subject.  Let  a  general  effort  be 
made  to  touch  this  happy  medium.  To  use  a  pun  of  sonie  lon 
gevity,  we  must  expectorate  less,  before  we  can  expect  to  rate  as 
a  polished  nation.  I  appeal  to  all  frequenters  of  public  places, 
whether  my  advice  be  not  good.  Let  it  be  followed.  Let  it  be 
henceforth  declared  no  more,  as  it  has  been,  that  '  an  American 
spits  from  his  cradle  to  his  grave ;  at  the  board  of  his  friend,  at 
the  feet  of  his  mistress,  at  the  drawing-room  of  his  president,  at 
the  altar  of  his  God :  he  salivates  for  three  score  years  and  ten  ; 
and  when  the  glands  of  his  palate  can  secrete  no  longer,  he  spits 
forth  his  spirit,  and  is  gathered  to  his  fathers,  to  spit  no  more.' 

JOHN  W.  SANGRADO,  M.  D. 

Communipaw,  November  22,  1834. 


END    OF    PROSE    MISCELLANIES. 


THE 


SPIRIT    OF    LIFE; 

A    POEM, 

PRONOUNCED   BEFORE  THE  FRANKLIN  SOCIETY 

OF 

BROWN    UNIVERSITY, 

SEPTEMBER  3,  1833. 
BY  WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 


"  Je  crois  que  le  monde  est  gouverng  par  une  volonte  puissante  et  sage  ; mais  ce 

m£me  monde  —  est-il  eternel  ou  cree  1    Y  a-t-il  un  pnncipe  unique  des  choses  ?" 

ROUSSEAU,  Emile,  liv.  iv. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER,   ESQUIRE,  M.P. 

AUTHOR  OF  '  PELHAM,'  '  DEVEREUX,'   EUGENE  ARAM,'  ETC. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

I  DEDICATE  these  pages  to  one  whose  animated  expressions  of  regard 
have  long  cheered,  and  whose  kind  praises  have  often  inspired  me  ;  to 
one,  whose  genius  is  acknowledged  with  ardor  among  all  the  intelligent 
classes  of  the  American  republic  ;  whose  impressive  writings  are  familiar 
to  the  general  reader,  from  Madawasca  to  the  Mississippi,  and  from  On 
tario  to  Florida;  to  one  whose  political  liberality  is  admired  by  every  well- 
read  freeman  in  the  Union,  and  whose  influence  as  an  author  (popular  in 
the  full  sense  of  the  word),  is  undeniably  stronger  and  more  diffusive 
among  the  people  of  America,  than  that  of  almost  any  modern  mind.  I 
inscribe  to  you  this  little  work,  with  a  hearty  wish  that  it  were  worthier  of 
your  acceptance.  You  can  see  the  excuses  with  which  it  is  put  forth  to 
the  public ;  but  I  am  sure  that  your  friendship  will  appreciate  my  motive 
Sufficiently  to  pardon,  in  its  expression,  both  the  manner  and  the  medium. 

That  you  may  long  continue  to  depict,  with  your  own  peculiar  power, 
the  deformity  and  misery  of  Vice,  and  the  peaceful  loveliness  of  Virtue, 
by  clothing  in  attractive  fiction  the  severe  truths  of  life ;  and  that  your 
love  of  free  American  principles  may  continue  to  afford  you  the  political 
influence  which,  as  a  member  of  the  British  Parliament,  you  now  wield 
in  '  a  body  of  the  first  gentlemen  in  Europe,'  is  the  sincere  desire  of 

Yours,  most  truly, 

W.  GATLORD  CLARK. 
Philadelphia,  October,  1833. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


Brown  University,  September  3,  1833. 
DEAR  SIR: 

THE  Franklin  Society  of  this  Institution,  through  the  undersigned,  as 
their  committee,  present  you  their  unfeigned  thanks  for  the  excellent  Poem 
with  which  you  have  this  day  favored  them,  and  hereby  solicit  a  copy  of 

the  same  for  publication. 

Yours,  very  respectfully, 

E.  P.  DYER 

F.  W.  FICKLING. 
To  WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK,  Esq. 


Philadelphia,  September  18,  1833. 
GENTLEMEN  : 

IN  answer  to  your  official  letter  of  the  3d  instant,  on  behalf  of  the  Frank 
lin  Society  of  Brown  University,  I  beg  leave  to  observe,  that  while  I  re 
ceive  with  unaffected  respect  and  pride  the  kind  opinions  of  the  associa 
tion  which  you  represent,  and  comply  with  the  request  for  a  copy  of  the 
poem  delivered  before  that  body,  I  feel  bound  to  extenuate  the  defects 
which  are,  in  all  likelihood,  contained  in  the  production.  The  majority 
of  it  is  the  eifort  of  a  few  languid  summer  evenings,  stolen  from  relaxation 
and  society,  after  a  performance  of  the  onerous  duties  appertaining  to  the 
editorship  of  a  daily  gazette ;  and  the  closing  portions  were  completed 
after  my  arrival  in  Providence,  not  many  hours  previous  to  their  delivery. 
I  do  not  mention  these  circumstances  to  excuse  those  blemishes  in  the 
poem  which  I  am  well  aware  it  may  probably  contain ;  and  to  apologize 
for  which,  I  have  not  enough  of  that  amabilis  insania,  so  finely  satirized  in 
the  Horatian  line.  The  subject  was  chosen  because  it  was  wide,  and  ad 
mitted  of  readier  treatment  than  one  less  general  and  expansive. 

With  this  brief  prologue,  therefore,  I  submit  the  affair  to  the  society, 
*  for  better  or  for  worse  ;'  and  remain, 

Gentlemen,  with  high  consideration, 
Your  obedient  servant, 

W.  GAYLORD  CLARK. 
To  E.  P.  DYER  and  F.  W.  FICKLING,  Esqs. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  LIFE, 


THERE  is  a  Spirit,  whose  reviving  power 

Dwells  through  the  changes  of  each  earthly  hour : 

Where  the  sere  blooms  of  man's  decline  are  shed, 

And  sterile  snows  the  brow  of  age  o'erspread ; 

Or  while  each  impulse  of  the  heart  is  young, 

And  the  light  laugh  falls  sweet  from  childhood's  tongue 

There  lurks  that  moving  spirit,  bound  to  all — 

O'er  which  nor  chance  nor  time  can  fling  a  thrall ; 

Through  lengthened  years  its  force  unbroken  moves, 

Guiding  the  hopes  of  earth,  the  cares,  the  loves  ; 

Where'er  the  land  outspreads,  or  sunshine  lies, 

Pour'd  on  old  ocean  from  the  boundless  skies ; 

In  calm  or  storm,  in  light  or  shade  it  springs, 

And  broods  o'er  nature  with  perpetual  wings. 

Its  name  is  Life — and  glorious  is  its  sway, 
WTiich  seas,  and  worlds  on  worlds,  and  stars  obey ; 
Born  from  the  exhaustless  might  of  GOD  alone, 
The  extended  universe  is  but  his  throne  ; 
In  liberal  measure,  through  the  waste  of  years, 
Its  quenchless  power,  or  principle,  appears  ; 
Fadeless  and  unrepress'd  its  lustres  move, 
Won  from  the  fountains  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Mysterious  Life  !  how  wide  is  thy  domain ! 
In  nature's  scope  how  absolute  thy  reign  ! 
In  moving  force  thy  kindling  gleams  appear, 
When  dewy  blooms  bedeck  the  opening  year; 
When,  robed  in  laughing  guise,  the  Spring  comes  on, 
And  waves  her  odorous  garlands  in  the  sun : 
When  the  soft  air  comes  balmy  from  the  West, 
And  tenderest  verdure  cheers  the  meadow's  breast : 


422  THE    SPIRIT    OF    LIFE. 

How  teem  the  gifts  of  life  at  such  an  hour— 
How  sighs  the  zephyr — how  expands  the  flow'r! 
High  from  the  forest's  nodding  tops  arise 
Rich  clouds  of  hidden  fragrance  through  the  skies  — 
Their  viewless  wings  the  abyss  of  ether  fan, 
While  dreams,  exalting,  fire  the  breast  of  man. 
Awakening  life  in  every  thought  prevails ; 
He  draws  rapt  inspiration  from  the  gales  : 
To  the  charm'd  eye  above,  the  golden  sun 
Doth  his  perpetual  journeys  brightly  run ; 
Around  his  course,  in  solemn  pomp,  repose 
Gay  clouds  that  drink  his  glory  as  he  goes  ; 
He  bathes  the  desert  waste,  the  city's  fanes ; 
He  pours  clear  radiance  on  the  hills  and  plains ; 
Till  restless  life,  still  travelling  with  his  rays, 
O'er  earth  and  heaven,  in  trembling  lustre  plays. 

Whor  when  the  summer  laughs  in  light  around, 
But  feels  that  spirit's  glowing  power  abound  ? 
Warmed  from  the  south,  the  gladsome  hours  are  shed, 
Lending  new  verdure  to  each  mountain-head ; 
Luxuriant  blessings  crown  the  pleasant  scene, 
And  the  broad  landscape  glows  in  sunny  green  ; 
While  leaves  and  birds  and  streams  their  songs  attune, 
And,  steep'd  in  music,  smiles  the  rose  of  June  ; 
Making  the  freighted  bliss  it  scatters  there, 
Seem  like  the  breathings  of  ambrosial  air ; 
While,  o'er  the  tall  old  hills  and  vales  between, 
In  peerless  glory,  swells  the  blue  serene  : 
Unbounded  skies! — where  life  triumphant  dwells, 
And  light  resistless  from  its  fountain  wells  ; 
Where  beauty  unapproach'd — alone — sublime, 
Mocks  at  the  restless  change  of  earth  and  time ; 
And  clothed  in  radiance  from  the  Eternal's  throne, 
Bends  its  unpillared  arch  from  zone  to  zone  ! 

Who  that  hath  stood,  where  summer  brightly  lay 
On  some  broad  city,  by  a  spreading  bay, 
And  from  a  rural  height  the  scene  survey'd, 
While  on  the  distant  strand  the  billows  play'd, 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    LIFE.  423 

But  felt  the  vital  spirit  of  the  scene, 

What  time  the  south  wind  stray'd  through  foliage  green, 

And  freshened  from  the  dancing  waves,  went  on, 

By  the  gay  groves,  and  fields,  and  gardens  won  ? 

Oh,  who  that  listens  to  the  inspiring  sound 

Which  the  wide  Ocean  wakes  against  his  bound, 

While,  like  some  fading  hope,  the  distant  sail 

Flits  o'er  the  dim  blue  waters,  hi  the  gale ; 

When  the  tired  sea-bird  dips  his  wings  in  foam, 

And  hies  him  to  his  beetling  eyry  home ; 

When  sun-gilt  ships  are  parting  from  the  strand, 

And  glittering  steamers  by  the  breeze  are  fanned ; 

When  the  wide  city's  domes  and  piles  aspire, 

And  rivers  broad  seemed  touch'd  with  golden  fire— 

Save  where  some  gliding  boat  their  lustre  breaks, 

And  volumed  smoke  its  murky  tower  forsakes, 

And  surging  in  dark  masses,  soars  to  lie, 

And  stain  the  glory  of  the  uplifted  sky ;' 

Oh,  who  at  such  a  scene  unmoved  hath  stood, 

And  gazed  on  town,  and  plain,  and  field,  and  flood, 

Nor  felt  that  life's  keen  spirit  lingered  there, 

Through  earth,  and  ocean,  and  the  genial  air? 

1  Change  is  the  life  of  Nature ;'  and  the  hour 
When  storm  and  blight  reveal  lone  autumn's  pow'r; 
When  damask  leaves  to  swollen  streams  are  cast, 
Borne  on  the  funeral  anthems  of  the  blast; 
When  emit  with  pestilence  the  woodlands  seem, 
Yet  gorgeous  as  a  Persian  poet's  dream; 
That  hour  the  seeds  of  life  within  it  bears, 
Though  fraught  with  perished  blooms  and  sobbing  airs; 
Though  solemn  companies  of  clouds  may  rest 
Along  the  uncheer'd  and  melancholy  west ; 
Though  there  no  more  the  enthusiast  may  behold 
Effulgent  troops,  arrayed  in  purple  and  gold ; 
Or  mark  the  quivering  lines  of  light  aspire, 
Where  crimson  shapes  are  bathed  in  living  fire  — 
Though  Nature's  withered  breast  no  more  be  fair, 
Nor  happy  voices  fluctuate  in  the  air ; 


424  THE    SPIRIT    OF    LIFE. 

Yet  is  there  life  in  Autumn's  sad  domains  — 

Life,  strong  and  quenchless,  through  his  kingdom  reigns* 

To  kindred  dust  the  leaves  and  flowers  return, 

Yet  briefly  sleep  in  winter's  icy  urn  ; 

Though  o'er  their  graves,  in  blended  wreaths,  repose 

Dim  wastes  of  dreary  and  untrodden  snows, 

Though  the  aspiring  hills,  rise  cold  and  pale 

To  breast  the  murmurs  of  the  northern  gale, 

Yet,  when  the  jocund  spring  again  comes  on, 

Their  trance  is  broken,  and  their  slumber  done ; 

Awakening  Nature  re-asserts  her  reign, 

And  her  kind  bosom  throbs  with  life  again ! 

•  'T  is  thus  with  man.     He  cometh,  like  the  flow'r, 
To  feel  the  changes  of  each  earthly  hour ; 
To  enjoy  the  sunshine,  or  endure  the  shade, 
By  hopes  deluded,  or  by  reason  sway'd ; 
Yet  haply,  if  to  Virtue's  path  he  turn, 
And  feel  her  hallowed  fires  within  him  burn, 
He  passeth  calmly  from  that  sunny  morn, 
Where  all  the  buds  of  youth  are  « newly  born,' 
Through  varying  intervals  of  onward  years, 
Until  the  eve  of  his  decline  appears : 
And  while  the  shadows  round  his  path  descend, 
As  down  the  vale  of  age  his  footsteps  tend, 
Peace -o'er  his  bosom  sheds  her  soft  control, 
And  throngs  of  gentlest  memories  charm  the  soul  ; 
Then,  weaned  from  earth,  he  turns  his  steadfast  eye 
Beyond  the  grave,  whose  verge  he  falters  nigh, 
Surveys  the  brightening  regions  of  the  blest, 
And,  like  a  wearied  pilgrim,  sinks  to  rest. 

The  just  man  dies  not,  though  within  the  tomb 
His  wasting  form  be  laid,  mid  tears  and  gloom: 
Though  many  a  heart  beats  sadly  when  repose 
His  silvery  locks  in  earth,  like  buried  snows; 
Yet  love,  and  hope,  and  faith,  with  heavenward  trust, 
Tell  that  his  spirit  sinks  not  in  the  dust : 
Above,  entranced  and  glorious,  it  hath  soared, 
Where  all  its  primal  freshness  is  restored; 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    LIFE.  425 

And  from  all  sin  released,  and  doubt,  and  pain, 
Renews  the  morning  of  its  youth  again. 

Yes  !  while  the  mourner  stands  beside  the  bier, 
O'er  a  lost  friend  to  shed  the  frequent  tear 
To  pour  the  tender  and  regretful  sigh, 
And  feel  the  heart-pulse  fill  the  languid  eye  — 
Even  at  that  hour  the  thoughtful  wo  is  vain, 
Since  change,  not  death,  invokes  affection's  pain. 
Naught  but  a  tranquil  slumberer  resteth  there, 
Whose  spirit's  plumes  have  swept  the  upper  air, 
And  caught  the  radiance  borne  from  heaven  along, 
Fraught  with  rich  incense  and  immortal  song; 
And  passed  the  glittering  gates  which  angels  keep: 
Oh,  wherefore  for  the  just  should  mourners  weep  ? 

And  why  should  grief  be  moved  for  those  who  die, 
When  life  is  opening  to  the  youthful  eye; 
When  freshening  love  springs  buoyant  in  the  breast, 
And  hope's  gay  wings  are  fluttering  undepress'd : 
While  like  the  morning  dews  that  gem  the  rose, 
In  the  pure  soul,  the  dreams  of  joy  repose ; 
When  on  the  land  and  wave  a  light  is  thrown, 
Which  to  the  morn  of  life  alone  is  known ; 
When  every  scene  brings  gladness  to  the  view, 
And  every  rapture  of  the  heart  is  new  ; 
Oh,  who  shall  mourn  that  then  the  silver  cord 
Is  loosed,  and  to  its  home  the  soul  restored  ? 
Oh  who  should  weep  that  thus,  at  such  an  hour, 
Celestial  light  should  burst  upon  the  flower — 
The  human  flower,  that  but  began  to  glow 
And  brighten  in  this  changeful  world  below ; 
Then,  still  unstained,  was  borne,  to  bloom  on  high, 
And  drink  the  lustre  of  a  fadeless  sky  ? 

No  !  let  the  mother,  when  her  infant's  breath 
Faints  on  her  bosom,  in  the  trance  of  death ; 
Then  let  her  yearning  heart  obey  the  call 
Of  that  high  GOD  who  loves  and  cares  for  all ; 


42C  THE    SPIRIT    OF    LIFE. 

Resign  the  untainted  blossom  to  that  shore 
Where  sicknesses  and  blight  have  power  no  more ; 
Where  poisonous  mildew  comes  not  from  the  air, 
To  check  the  undying  blooms  and  verdure  there ; 
But  where  the  gifts  of  life  profuse  are  shed, 
And  funeral  wailings  rise  not  o'er  the  dead  : 
Where  cherub-throngs  in  joy  triumphant  move, 
And  Faith  lies  slumbering  on  the  breast  of  Love. 

Change  wears  the  name  of  death,  the  heart  to  bow, 
And  bid  its  rising  shadows  cloud  the  brow; 
To  teach  the  wandering  soul,  with  truth  severe, 
That  man  hath  no  continual  city  here; 
That  all  his  hopes,  unfixed  on  God  and  heaven, 
Like  pure  aroma  to  the  whirlwinds  given, 
Are  raptures,  wasted  from  a  precious  store, 
They  leave  the  bosom  to  return  no  more. 

Could  man's  impressive  reason  bear  the  sway, 
And  guide  his  footsteps  through  life's  little  day; 
Could  every  pulse  that  riots  but  to  stain 
His  soul,  move  calmly  in  reflection's  reign; 
Could  gentle  Conscience  whisper  peace  within, 
And  from  his  spirit  sweep  the  darling  sin; 
Between  his  birth-hour  and  his  final  rest, 
What  high  philosophy  would  fire  his  breast? 
Time's  glittering  charms  would  then  no  more  delude, 
Its  phantom  train  would  all  be  unpursued ; 
No  scars  of  sorrow's  war  the  cheek  would  wear, 
Ploughed  by  corroding  thoughts  too  deeply  there ; 
No  gusts  of  passion  would  the  brow  deform, 
Or  lash  the  kindling  bosom  into  storm; 
But  each  pure  wish,  inspired,  to  heaven  would  soar, 
And  earth's  dull  fevers  burn  the  heart  no  more. 

And  since  the  changes  which  in  time  are  rife, 
No  real  death  contain,  but  teem  with  life ; 
Since  blooming  nature  from  decay  can  spring 
With  buds,  and  happy  birds  upon  the  wing; 


THE   SPIRIT   OP   LIFE.  427 

Since  year  to  year  succeeds,  and  all  renew 

The  scenes  that  glow'd  to  childhood's  wondering  view, 

Since  lavish  beauty  riseth  from  the  dust, 

Shall  man's  cold  heart  withdraw  from  heaven  its  trust? 

No  !  while  the  unblemished  sun  careers  on  high, 

And  gilds,  with  glorious  smile,  the  earth  and  sky; 

While  tides,  mysteriously-obedient,  roll 

From  orient  Indus  to  the  frozen  pole ; 

While  chaste  and  free  above,  serenely  bright, 

The  moon  sails  onward  through  a  sea  of  light ; 

While  verdant  leaves  in  summer's  air  can  play, 

Or  torrents  thunder  midst  their  rainbow  spray : 

Long  as  the  unnumbered  stars  can  flash  and  burn, 

Or  journeying  winds  upon  then:  circuits  turn ; 

There  shall  the  exhaustless  life  of  GOD  be  found, 

And  His  kind  love  diffuse  its  gifts  around. 

Man  to  his  rest  may  fall — but  who  should  mourn, 
Or  plant  the  cypress  by  the  marble  urn  ? 
In  dust  his  wan,  cold  ashes  may  remain, 
But  no  dark  shade  of  death  the  soul  can  stain ; 
Beyond  destruction's  power  'tis  formed  to  rise, 
And  bide  the  judgment-audit  in  the  skies. 
Then  who  the  dirge  would  breathe,  or  pour  the  tear, 
Since  life  is  strong,  and  death  is  feeble  here? 
Gorged  by  the  past,  in  dreamless  slumber  laid, 
Rest  the  fond  lover  and  the  rosy  maid ; 
Friends,  parents,  brothers,  sisters,  linger  there, 
Shut  from  the  sunshine  and  the  blessed  ah*; 
But  change  alone  hath  touched  each  earthly  form, 
Each  faded  banquet  of  the  noisome  worm : 
Death  o'er  the  ransomed  spirit  hath  no  pow'r-^ 
It  waits  the  final  and  triumphant  hour, 
When  sundering  cerements  shall  then*  prey  release, 
Renewed  and  radiant,  to  the  Realms  of  Peace. 

All-quenchless  Life !  bright  effluence  from  GOD  ! 
Whose  impulse  fills  the  universe  abroad ! 
From  thee  the  restless  heart  its  movement  draws  — 
In  thee,  revolving  seasons  find  their  laws; 


428  THE    SPIRIT    OF    LIFE. 

Thine  is  the  pulse  that  heaves  the  ocean  waver 

Or  bids  the  evening  sunlight  gild  the  grave  ; 

That  paints  the  gorgeous  skies  at  night  or  morn, 

When  dawn  is  blushing,  or  when  stars  are  born ; 

Which  drives  the  unquiet  storm  along  its  way, 

When  broken  ships  are  whelm'd  in  surge  and  spray ; 

While  inland  hills  are  echoing  wildly-loud, 

As  the  mad  thunders  roll  from  cloud  to  cloud; 

When  giant  trees,  with  arms  uplifted  high, 

Creak,  as  the  sheeted  lightnings  hurtle  by; 

While  lengthened  swells  chastise  the  groaning  strand, 

And  bid  their  deep-toned  murmurs  thrill  the  land ! 

Life,  unsubdued,  through  all  the  world  prevails ; 
Howls  on  the  midnight  waters,  or  in  vales 
Where  gentlest  Summer  spreads  her  waving  grain, 
Smiles  o'er  the  golden  harvest,  on  the  plain; 
Bathes,  through  the  tranquil  eve,  the  lake  and  stream, 
In  silvery  lustre,  an  unbroken  gleam  ; 
Bids  the  rich  sunset  all  its  splendors  form, 
And  braids  the  rainbow  on  the  passing  storm  : 
These  are  the  gifts  of  Life  —  sublime  and  high  — 
They  teach  the  soul  its  immortality ! 

Then  let  obedient  roan  the  lesson  heed  — 
Let  his  observant  eye  its  precepts  read ; 
On  earth,  and  ocean,  and  in  heaven  above, 
Writ  with  the  principle  of  life  and  love  ; 
So,  when  the  mockeries  of  this  world  shall  cease,. 
His  spotless  soul  may  don  the  robes  of  peace  : 
Its  tireless  pinions  shall  in  rapture  wave, 
Far  through  the  bended  skies,  above  the  grave  ; 
Where  no  sad  care  the  soaring  thought  can  bind, 
Or  vex  the  holy  and  eternal  mind. 

There,  through  unclouded  leagues  of  fragrant  air, 
The  walls  of  Heaven  dispense  their  glories  rare ; 
Prismatic  shafts  of  sparkling  light  arise, 
Pure  as  the  thoughts  that  beam  from  angels'  eyes; 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    LIFE.  429 

There,  glittering  gates  of  massy  pearl  unfold, 

And  restless  lustre  streams  from  streets  of  gold ; 

There  Life's  immortal  river  flows  abroad, 

To  cheer  the  city  of  the  living  GOD  ; 

And  where  its  liquid  lapse  extends  serene, 

By  dewy  pastures  of  undying  green  ; 

There,  rich  with  healing  leaves  and  fruits  that  glow, 

The  trees  of  life  their  generous  wealth  bestow ; 

There,  gentle  harpers  cheer  the  shadeless  day, 

And  balm  and  song  are  pour'd  from  every  spray. 

There,  too,  when  nature's  requiem-trump  shall  sound, 
Will  all  the  pure  of  earth  again  be  found ; 
Long-sundered  friends,  on  that  unblighted  shore, 
Will  meet,  to  sorrow  and  to  part  no  more  ; 
But,  calm'd  and  blessed,  in  reverential  love, 
Through  joyous  bowers,  and  fields  undimmed,  will  move, 
A  deathless  King  to  praise — divine  and  just, 
Beneath  whose  feet  the  burning  stars  are  dust. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


SEVERAL  of  the  briefer  miscellaneous  poems  of  the  author  of  '  The  Spirit  of  Life' 
were  bound  up  in  the  volume  which  contained  that  production,  and  will  generally  be 
deemed,  it  is  believed,  quite  its  superior.  They  were  accompanied  in  the  original  col 
lection  by  the  annexed  explanatory  words  of  the  writer  :  '  In  addition  to  the  preced 
ing  poem,  the  author  takes  the  liberty  of  subjoining  a  few  miscellaneous  '  fugitives 
from  justice.'  Many  of  them  have  already  been  brought  to  trial  before  the  public,  by 
some  of  the  high  editorial  judges  of  the  country,  and  have  escaped  the  ordeal  with  an. 
aggregate  of  commendation,  which  must  be  attributed  more  to  the  kindness  of  the 
triers  than  to  the  merits  of  the  tried.  The  pieces  annexed  are  mostly  taken  from 
among  a  collection  —  in  part  the  product  of  leisure  hours  at  school  —  and  variously 
published,  in  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  BUCKINGHAM'S  Magazine,  the  Lon 
don  Review,  British  Magazine,  the  Court  Magazine,  BULWER'S  New  Monthly  Maga 
zine,  and  other  journals  of  the  British  metropolis.  After  the  close  of  BRYANT'S 
enterprise  in  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  there  was  not  for  some  years  a 
Magazine  of  any  note  in  the  country.  It  was  during  that  time,  and  from  that  cause, 
that  many  of  the  following  poems  were  sent  to  literary  friends  abroad,  and  published  in 
their  respective  periodicals.'  Several  well-known  effusions  of  the  author,  as  has  already 
been  stated,  and  as  will  have  been  seen  indeed,  appeared  in  his  '  Ollapodiana'  papers, 
in  which  connection  they  maybe  found  by  the  reader  of  these  pages. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


LAST  PRAYER  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS- 

O  Domine  DEUS  !  speravi  in  te  ; 
O  care  mi  JESU,  nunc  libera  me ; 
In  dura  catena,  in  miserapcena, 

Desidero  te  ; 

Languendo,  gemendo,  et  genuflectendo, 
Adoro,  imploro,  ut  liberes  me.  !* 

IT  was  the  holy  twilight  hour,  and  clouds  in  crimson  pride 
Sailed  through  the  golden  firmament,  in  the  calm  evening-tide; 
The  peasant's  cheerful  song  was  hushed  by  every  hill  and  glen, 
The  city's  voice  stole  faintly  out,  and  died  the  hum  of  men: 
And  as  night's  sombre  shades  came  down  o'er  day's  resplendent  eye, 
A  faded  face,  from  a  prison  cell,  gazed  out  upon  the  sky; 
For  to  that  face  the  glad  bright  sun  of  earth  for  aye  had  set, 
And  the  last  time  had  come  to  mark  eve's  starry  coronet! 

Oh,  who  can  paint  the  bitter  thoughts  that  o'er  her  spirit  stole, 

As  her  pale  lips  gave  utterance  to  feeling's  deep  control ; 

While,  shadowed  from  life's  vista  back,  thronged  mid  her  falling  tears 

The  fantasies  of  early  hope,  dreams  of  departed  years  : 

"When  .pleasure's  light  was  sprinkled,  and  silver  voices  flung 

Their  rich  and  echoing  cadences  her  virgin  hours  among ; 

When  there  came  no  shadow  on  her  brow,  no  tear  to  dim  her  eye, 

When  there  frown'd  no  cloud  of  sorrow  in  her  being's  festal  sky. 

Perchance  at  that  lone  hour  the  thought  of  early  visions  came, 

Of  the  trance  that  touched  her  lip  with  song,  at  love's  mysterious  flame 


*  THESE  lines,  sc  melodious  in  the  original,  and  susceptible  of  equally  melodious  transla 
tion,  were  written  by  the  unfortunate  MART  a  short  time  before  her  melancholy  execution. 

28 


434  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

When  she  listened  to  the  low-breathed  tones  of  him  the  idol  One, 
Who  shone  in  her  imagining,  first  ray  of  pleasure's  sun : 
Perchance  the  walk  in  evening  hours  —  the  impassioned  kiss  or  vow, 
The  warm  tear  on  the  kindling  cheek,  the  smile  upon  the  brow : 
But  they  came  like  flowers  that  wither,  and  the  light  of  all  had  fled, 
As  a  hue  from  April's  pinion,  o'er  earth's  budding  bosom  shed. 

And  thus,  as  star  came  after  star,  into  the  boundless  heaven, 
Were  her  deep  thoughts,  and  eloquent,  in  pensive  numbers  given  : 
They  were  the  offerings  of  a  heart,  where  grief  had  long  held  sway ; 
And  now  the  night,  the  hour  had  come,  to  give  her  feelings  way: 
It  was  the  last  dim  night  of  life ;  the  sun  had  sunk  to  rest, 
And  the  blue  twilight  haze  had  crept  on  the  far  mountain's  breast; 
And  thus,  as  in  her  saddened  heart  the  tide  of  love  grew  strong, 
Pour'd  her  meek,  quiet  spirit  forth,  this  flood  of  mournful  song : 

'The  shades  of  evening  gather  now,  o'er  the  mysterious  earth, 
The  viewless  winds  are  whispering,  in  wild,  capricious  mirth; 
The  gentle  moon  hath  come  to  shed  a  flood  of  glory  round, 
That,  through  this  soft  and  still  repose,  sleeps  richly  on  the  ground : 
And  in  the  free,  sweet  gales  that  sweep  along  my  prison  bar, 
Seem  borne  the  pure,  deep  harmonies  of  every  kindling  star: 
I  see  the  blue  streams  glancing  in  the  mild  and  chastened  light, 
And  the  gem-lit,  fleecy  clouds,  that  steal  along  the  brow  of  night. 

'Oh  must  I  leave  existence  now,  while  life  should  be  like  spring  — 
While  Joy  should  cheer  my  pilgrimage,  with  sunbeams  from  his  wing  ? 
Are  the  songs  of  hope  for  ever  flown  —  the  syren  voice  which  flung 
The  chant  of  youth's  warm  happiness  from  the  beguiler's  tongue  ? 
Shall  I  drink  no  more  the  melody  of  babbling  stream  or  bird, 
Or  the  scented  gales  of  summer,  as  the  leaves  of  June  are  stirr'd  ? 
Shall  the  pulse  of  love  wax  fainter,  and  the  spirit  shrink  from  death, 
As  the  bud-like  thoughts  that  lit  my  heart  fade  in  its  chilling  breath  ? 

'  I  have  passed  the  dreams  of  childhood,  and  my  loves  and  hopes  are  gone, 
And  I  turn  to  Thee,  REDEEMER  !  oh,  thou  blest  and  Holy  One  ! 
Though   the  rose  of   health  has  vanished — though   the    mandate    hath 

been  spoken, 
And  one  by  one  the  golden  links  of  life's  fond  chain  are  broken, 


LAST    PRAYER    OF    MARY,    QUEEN    OF    SCOTS.      435 

Yet  can  my  spirit  turn  to  THEE,  thou  chastener  !  and  can  bend 
In  humble  suppliance  at  thy  throne,  my  father  and  my  friend  ! 
Thou,  who  hast  crowned  my  youth  with  hope,  my  early  days  in  glee, 
Give  me  the  eagle's  fearless  wing — the  dove's,  to  mount  to  THEE! 

*  I  lose  my  foolish  hold  on  life,  its  passions  and  its  tears  : 

How  brief  the  yearning  extacies  of  its  young,  careless  years ! 

I  give  my  heart  to  earth  no  more,  the  grave  may  "clasp  me  now ; 

The  winds  whose  tone  I  loved,  may  play  in  the  dark  cypress  bough: 

The  birds,  the  streams  are  eloquent ;  yet  I  shall  pass  away, 

And  in  the  light  of  heaven  shake  off  this  cumbrous  load  of  clay ; 

I  shall  join  the  lost,  the  loved  of  earth,  and  meet  each  kindred  breast, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest.' 


436  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


A   CONTRASTED  PICTURE. 

IT  was  the  morning  of  a  day  in  spring  — 
The  sun  looked  gladness  from  the  eastern  sky ; 
Birds  were  upon  the  trees  and  on  the  wing, 
And  all  the  air  was  rich  with  melody ; 
The  heaven,  the  calm,  pure  heaven,  was  bright  on  high; 
Earth  laugh'd  beneath  in  all  its  fresh'ning  green, 
The  free  blue  streams  sang  as  they  wandered  by, 
And  many  a  sunny  glade  and  flowery  scene 
Gleam'd  out,  like  thoughts  of  youth,  life's  troubled  years  between. 

The  rose's  breath  upon  the  south  wind  came, 
Oft  as  its  whisperings  the  young  branches  stirr'd, 
And  flowers  for  which  the  poet  hath  no  name ; 
While,  midst  the  blossoms  of  the  grove,  were  heard 
The  restless  murmurs  of  the  humming-bird : 
Waters  were  dancing  in  the  mellow  light ; 
And  joyous  notes  and  many  a  cheerful  word 
Stole  on  the  charmed  ear  with  such  delight 
As  waits  on  soft  sweet  tones  of  music  heard  at  night. 

The  night-dews  lay  in  the  half  open'd  flower, 
Like  hopes  that  nestle  in  the  youthful  breast ; 
And  ruffled  by  the  light  airs  of  the  hour, 
Awoke  the  pure  lake  from  its  glassy  rest: 
Slow  blending  with  the  blue  and  distant  west, 
Lay  the  dim  woodlands,  and  the  quiet  gleam 
Of  amber  clouds,  like  islands  of  the  blest ; 
Glorious  and  bright,  and  changing  like  a  dream, 
And  lessening  fast  away  beneath  the  intenser  beam. 

Songs  were  amid  the  mountains  far  and  wide, 
Songs  were  upon  the  green  slopes  blooming  nigh: 
While,  from  the  springing  flowers  on  every  side, 


A     CONTRASTED     PICTURE.  437 

Upon  his  painted  wings  the  butterfly 
Roamed  a  sweet  blossom  of  the  sunny  sky  ; 
The  visible  smile  of  joy  was  on  the  scene ; 
'Twas  a  bright  vision,  but  too  soon  to  die  ! 
Spring  may  not  linger  in  her  robes  of  green  — • 
Autumn,  in  storm  and  shade,  shall  quench  the  summer  sheen. 

I  came  again.     'Twas  Autumn's  stormy  hour: 
The  wild  winds  murmured  in  the  faded  wood ; 
The  sere  leaves,  rustling  in  the  yellow  bower, 
Were  hurled  in  eddies  to  the  moaning  flood  : 
Dark  clouds  enthrall'd  the  west  ;  an  orb  of  blood, 
The  red  sun  pierced  the  hazy  atmosphere; 
While  torrent  voices  broke  the  solitude, 
Where,  straying  lonely,  as  with  steps  of  fear, 
I  mark'd  the  deepening  gloom  which  shrouds  the  dying  year. 

The  ruffled  lake  heav'd  wildly;  near  the  shore 
It  bore  the  red  leaves  of  the  shaken  tree  — 
Shed  in  the  violent  north  wind's  restless   roar, 
Emblems  of  man  upon  life's  stormy  sea ! 
Pale  autumn  leaves !  once  to  the  breezes  free 
They  waved  in  Spring  and  Summer's  golden  prime, 
Now,  even  as  clouds  or  dew,  how  fast  they  flee  ! 
Weak,  changing  like  the  flowers  in  Autumn's  clime, 
As  man  sinks  down  in  death,  chill'd  by  the  touch  of  time  I 

I  marked  the  picture :  'twas  the  changeful  scene 
Which  life  holds  up  to  the  observant  eye  : 
Youth's  spring,  and  summer,  and  its  bowers  of  green, 
The  streaming  sunlight  of  its  morning  sky, 
And  the  dark  clouds  of  death  which  linger  by: 
For  oft,  when  life  is  fresh  and  hope  is  strong, 
Shall  early  sorrow  breathe  the  unbidden  sigh, 
While  age  to  death  moves  peacefully  along, 
As  on  the  singer's  lip  expires  the  finished  song. 


433  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

AN    INVITATION. 

"They  that  seek  me  early  shall  find  me." 

COME  while  the  blossoms  of  thy  years  are  brightest, 

Thou  youthful  wanderer  in  a  flowery  maze ; 
Come,  while  the  restless  heart  is  bounding  lightest, 

And  joy's  pure  sunbeams  tremble  in  thy  ways : 
Come,  while  sweet  thoughts,  like  summer  buds  unfolding, 

Waken  rich  feelings  in  the  careless  breast; 
While  yet  thy  hand  the  ephemeral  wreath  is  holding  — 

Come,  and  secure  interminable  rest. 

Soon  will  the  freshness  of  thy  days  be  over, 

And  thy  free  buoyancy  of  soul  be  flown; 
Pleasure  will  fold  her  wing,  and  friend  and  lover 

Will  to  the  embraces  of  the  worm  have  gone  : 
Those  who  now  love  thee  will  have  pass'd  forever  — 

Their  looks  of  kindness  will  be  lost  to  thee : 
Thou  wilt  need  balm  to  heal  thy  spirit's  fever, 

As  thy  sick  heart  broods  over  years  to  be. 

Come  while  the  morning  of  thy  life  is  glowing,  — 

Ere  the  dim  phantoms  thou  art  chasing  die  ; 
Ere  the  gay  spell  which  earth  is  round  thee  throwing, 

Fade  like  the  sunset  of  a  summer  sky ; 
Life  hath  but  shadows,  save  a  promise  given, 

Which  lights  the  future  with  a  fadeless  ray: 
Oh,  touch  the  sceptre — win  a  hope  in  heaven  — 

Come  —  turn  thy  spirit  from  the  world  away. 

Then  will  the  crosses  of  this  brief  existence, 

Seem  airy  nothings  to  thine  ardent  soul : 
And  shining  brightly  in  the  forward  distance, 

Will  of  thy  patient  race  appear  the  goal : 
Home  of  the  weary !  where  in  peace  reposing, 

The  spirit  lingers  in  unclouded  bliss, 
Though  o'er  its  dust  the  curtained  grave  is  closing  — 

Who  would  not  early  choose  a  lot  like  this  ? 


A    LAMENT.  439 


A    LAMENT. 

THEY  sin,  who  tell  us  love  can  die ; 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity : 

But  love  is  indestructible : 

Its  holy  flame  for  ever  burneth  ; 

From  heaven  it  came  —  to  heaven  returneth  ; 

Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppress'd — 

It  here  is  tried,  and  purified, 

And  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest. 

SOUTH  BY. 

THERE  is  a  voice  I  shall  hear  no  more : 
There  are  tones  whose  music  for  me  is  o'er; 
Sweet  as  the  odors  of  spring  were  they — 
Precious  and  rich  —  but  they  died  away: 
They  came  like  peace  to  my  heart  and  ear  — 
Never  again  will  they  murmur  here  : 
They  have  gone,  like  the  blush  of  a  summer  mom — 
Like  a  crimson  cloud,  through  the  sunset  borne. 

There  were  eyes,  that  late  were  lit  up  for  me, 

Whose  kindly  glance  was  a  joy  to  see  : 

They  revealed  the  thoughts  of  a  trusting  heart, 

Untouched  by  sorrow  —  untaught  by  art : 

Whose  affections  were  fresh  as  a  stream  of  spring, 

When  birds  in  the  vernal  branches  sing  ; 

They  were  fill'd  with  love  that  hath  passed  with  them, 

And  my  lyre  is  breathing  their  requiem. 

I  remember  a  brow,  whose  serene  repose 
Seemed  to  lend  a  beauty  to  cheeks  of  rose  ; 
And  lips  I  remember,  whose  dewy  smile, 
As  I  mused  on  their  eloquent  power  the  while, 
Sent  a  thrill  to  my  bosom,  and  blest  my  brain 
With  raptures  that  never  may  dawn  again : 
Amidst  musical  accents  those  smiles  were  shed  — 
Alas,  for  the  doom  of  the  early  dead ! 


440  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Alas,  for  the  clod  that  is  resting  now, 

On  those  slumbering  eyes  —  on  that  faded  brow  ! 

Wo  for  the  cheek  that  hath  ceased  to  bloom  — 

For  the  lips  that  are  dumb  in  the  noisome  tomb ; 

Their  melody  broken,  their  fragrance  gone  — 

Their  aspect  cold  as  the  Parian  stone : 

Alas,  for  the  hopes  that  with  thee  have  died  — 

Oh,  loved-one  !  would  I  were  by  thy  side  ! 

Yet  the  joy  of  grief  it  is  mine  to  bear : 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  twilight  air ; 

Thy  smile  of  sweetness  untold  I  see, 

When  the  visions  of  evening  are  borne  to  me ; 

Thy  kiss  on  my  dreaming  lip  is  warm, 

My  arm  embraceth  thy  yielding  form  : 

Then  I  wake  in  a  world  that  is  sad  and  drear, 

To  feel  in  my  bosom  —  thou  art  not  here ! 

Oh,  once  the  summer  to  me  was  bright  — 
The  day,  like  thine  eyes,  wore  a  holy  light ; 
There  was  bliss  in  existence,  when  thou  wert  nigh 
There  was  balm  in  the  evening's  rosy  sigh  : 
Then  earth  was  an  Eden,  and  thou  its  guest; 
A  sabbath  of  blessings  was  in  my  breast : 
My  heart  was  full  of  a  sense  of  love, 
Likest,  of  all  things,  to  heaven  above. 

Now  thou  art  laid  in  that  voiceless  hall, 
Where  my  budding  raptures  have  perished  all ; 
In  that  tranquil  and  holy  place  of  rest, 
Where  the  earth  lies  damp  on  the  sinless  breast : 
Thy  bright  locks  all  in  the  vault  are  hid  — 
Thy  brow  is  concealed  by  the  coffin-lid : 
All  that  was  lovely  to  me  is  there  — 
Mournful  is  life,  and  a  load  to  bear ! 


WARNINGS.  441 


WARNINGS. 

THERE  are  voices  of  GOD  for  the  careless  ear  — 

A  low-breathed  whisper  when  none  is  near  • 

In  the  silent  watch  of  the  night's  calm  hours, 

When  the  dews  are  at  rest,  in  the  deep  sealed  flowers ; 

When  the  wings  of  the  zephyr  are  folded  up, 

When  the  violet  bendeth  its  azure  cup  ; 

"Pis  a  breath  of  reproval  —  a  murmuring  tone, 

Like  music  remembered,  or  extacies  gone. 

"Pis  a  voice  that  sweeps  through  the  evening  sky, 

When  clouds  o'er  the  pale  moon  are  hurrying  by ; 

While  the  fickle  gusts,  as  they  come  and  go, 

Wake  the  forest  boughs  on  the  mountain's  brow : 

It  speaks  in  the  shadows  that  swiftly  pass, 

In  the  waves,  that  are  roused  from  the  lake's  clear  glass. 

Where  summer  shores,  in  their  verdant  pride, 

Were  pictured  but  late  in  the  stainless  tide. 

And  that  voice  breaks  out  in  the  tempest's  flight, 
When  the  wild  winds  sweep  in  their  fearful  might ; 
When  the  lightnings  go  forth  on  the  hills  to  play  — 
As  they  pass  on  their  pinions  of  fire  away  ; 
While  they  fiercely  smile  through  the  dusky  sky, 
As  the  thunder-peals  to  their  glance  reply  ; 
As  the  bolts  leap  out  from  the  sombre  cloud, 
While  the  midnight  whirlwinds  sing  wild  and  loud  J 

"Pis  a  voice  which  comes  in  the  early  morn, 
When  the  matin  hymns  of  the  birds  are  born  ; 
It  steals  from  the  fold  of  the  painted  cloud  — 
From  the  forest's  draperies,  sublime  and  proud ; 
Its  tones  are  blent  with  the  running  stream, 
As  it  sweeps  along,  like  a  changeful  dream, 


442  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  its  light  and  shade,  through  the  chequered  vale, 
While  the  uplands  are  fanned  by  the  viewless  gale. 

In  the  twilight  hour,  when  the  weary  bird 
On  her  nest  is  sleeping,  that  voice  is  heard  ; 
While  mist-robes  are  drawn  o'er  the  green  earth's  breast, 
And  the  sun  hath  gone  down  from  the  faded  west ; 
In  the  hush  of  that  silence  —  when  winds  are  still, 
And  the  light  wakes  no  smile  in  the  quivering  rill ; 
Through  the  wonderful  depths  of  the  purple  air, 
O'er  the  landscape  trembling  —  that  voice  is  there  ! 

There  are  whispers  of  GOD  in  the  cataract's  roar  — 
In  the  Sea's  rude  wail,  on  his  sounding  shore ; 
In  the  waves  that  melt  on  his  azure  isles, 
Where  the  sunny  south  on  their  verdure  smiles ; 
In  the  oceanward  wrind  from  the  orange  trees  — 
In  the  Sabean  odors  that  load  the  breeze  ; 
'Midst  the  incense  that  floats  from  Arabia's  strand -r- 
That  tone  is  there  with  its  whispers  bland. 

And  it  saith  to  the  cold  and  the  careless  heart, 
How  long  wilt  thou  turn  from  '  the  letter  part  ?' 
I  have  called  from  the  infinite  depths  of  heaven, 
I  have  called,  but  no  answer  to  me  was  given  ; 
From  many  a  hallowed  and  glorious  spot, 
I  have  called  by  my  Spirit  —  and  ye  would  not! 
Thou  art  far  from  the  haven,  and  tempest  toss'd  — 
Hear  the  cry  of  thy  Pilot,  or  thou  art  lost ! 


EUTHANASIA 


EUTHANASIA. 

•WHAT  is  man's  history?    Born  —  living  —  dying, 

Leaving  the  still  shore  for  the  troubled  wave  ; 
Mid  clouds  and  storms,  o'er  broken  shipwrecks  flying, 
And  casting  anchor  in  the  silent  grave.' 


METHTNKS,  when  on  the  languid  eye 

Life's  varying  scenes  grow  dim; 
When  evening-shadows  veil  the  sky, 

And  Pleasure's  syren  hymn 
Grows  fainter  on  the  tuneless  ear, 
Like  echoes  from  another  sphere, 

Or  dreams  of  seraphim  — 
It  were  not  sad  to  cast  away 
This  dull  and  cumbrous  load  of  clay 


It  were  not  sad  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold; 
To  feel  those  longings  to  depart, 

That  cheer'd  the  saints  of  old; 
To  clasp  the  faith  which  looks  on  high- 
Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye, 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast, 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 

in. 

It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed, 
Till  the  pure  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-winged  seraphs  led  : 
Where  glories  earth  may  never  know, 
O'er  'many  mansions'  lingering,  glow, 

In  peerless  lustre  shed; 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar, 
Where  sin  and  grief  can  sting  no  more. 


443 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

IV. 

And,  though  the  way  to  such  a  goal 

Lies  through  the  cloudy  tomb, 
If  on  the  free,  unfetter'd  soul 

There  rest  no  stains  of  gloom ; 
How  should  its  aspirations  rise, 
Far  through  the  blue  and  fretted  skies, 

Up  —  to  its  final  home; 
Beyond  the  journeyings  of  the  sun, 
Where  streams  of  living  waters  run ! 


A   SONG   OF    MAY.  445 


A   SONG   OF    MAY. 

THE  Spring's  scented  buds  all  around  me  are  swelling, 

There  are  songs  in  the  stream,  there  is  health  in  the  gale ; 
A  sense  of  delight  in  each  bosom  is  dwelling, 

As  float  the  pure  day-beams  o'er  mountain  and  vale ; 
The  desolate  reign  of  Old  Winter  is  broken, 

The  verdure  is  fresh  upon  every  tree  ; 
Of  Nature's  revival  the  .charm  —  and  a  token 

Of  love,  oh  thou  Spirit  of  Beauty  !  to  thee. 

The  sun  looketh  forth  from  the  halls  of  the  morning, 

And  flushes  the  clouds  that  begirt  his  career ; 
He  welcomes  the  gladness  and  glory,  returning 

To  rest  on  the  promise  and  hope  of  the  year. 
He  fills  with  rich  light  all  the  balm-breathing  flowers, 

He  mounts  to  the  zenith,  and  laughs  on  the  wave; 
He  wakes  into  music  the  green  forest-bowers, 

And  gilds  the  gay  plains  which  the  broad  rivers  lave. 

The  young  bird  is  out  on  his  delicate  pinion — 

He  timidly  sails  in  the  infinite  sky ; 
A  greeting  to  May,  and  her  fairy  dominion, 

He  pours,  on  the  west-wind's  fragrant  sigh : 
Around,  above,  there  are  peace  and  pleasure, 

The  woodlands  are  singing,  the  heaven  is  bright ; 
The  fields  are  unfolding  their  emerald  treasure, 

And  man's  genial  spirit  is  soaring  in  light. 

Alas !  for  my  weary  and  care-haunted  bosom ! 

The  spells  of  the  spring-time  arouse  it  no  more  ; 
The  song  in  the  wild-wood,  the  sheen  of  the  blossom, 

The  fresh-welling  fountain,  their  magic  is  o'er ! 
When  I  list  to  the  streams,  when  I  look  on  the  flowers, 

They  tell  of  the  Past  with  so  mournful  a  tone, 
That  I  call  up  the  throngs  of  my  long-vanished  hours, 

And  sigh  that  their  transports  are  over  and  gone. 


446  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

From  the  wide-spreading  earth,  from  the  limitless  heaven, 

There  have  vanished  an  eloquent  glory  and  gleam ; 
To  my  veil'd  mind  no  more  is  the  influence  given, 

Which  coloreth  life  with  the  hues  of  a  dream  : 
The  bloom-purpled  landscape  its  loveliness  keepeth  — 

I  deem  that  a  light  as  of  old  gilds  the  wave  ; 
But  the  eye  of  my  spirit  in  heaviness  sleepeth, 

Or  sees  but  my  youth,  and  the  visions  it  gave. 

Yet  it  is  not  that  age  on  my  years  hath  descended, 

'Tis  not  that  its  snow-wreaths  encircle  my  brow  ; 
But  the  newness  and  sweetness  of  Being  are  ended, 

I  feel  not  their  love-kindling  witchery  now : 
The  shadows  of  death  o'er  my  path  have  been  sweeping ; 

There  are  those  who  have  loved  me,  debarred  from  the  day; 
The  green  turf  is  bright  where  in  peace  they  are  sleeping, 

And  on  wings  of  remembrance,  my  soul  is  away. 

It  is  shut  to  the  glow  of  this  present  existence, 

It  hears,  from  the  Past,  a  funeral  strain  ; 
And  it  eagerly  turns  to  the  high-seeming  distance,* 

Where  the  last  blooms  of  earth  will  be  garnered  again  ; 
Where  no  mildew  the  soft  damask -rose  cheek  shall  nourish, 

Where  Grief  bears  no  longer  the  poisonous  sting ; 
Where  pitiless  Death  no  dark  sceptre  can  flourish, 

Or  stain  with  his  blight  the  luxuriant  spring. 

It  is  thus  that  the  hopes  which  to  others  are  given, 

Fall  cold  on  my  heart  in  this  rich  month  of  May; 
I  hear  the  clear  anthems  that  ring  through  the  heaven, 

I  drink  the  bland  airs  that  enliven  the  day; 
And  if  gentle  Nature,  her  festival  keeping, 

Delights  not  my  bosom,  ah  !  do  not  condemn  ; 
O'er  the  lost  and  the  lovely  my  spirit  is  weeping, 

For  my  heart's  fondest  raptures  are  buried  with  them. 


A    PLACE    OF    REST.  447 

A   PLACE   OF    REST. 

'  ALLI  los  impios  cesaron  del  tumulto  ;  y  alii  reposaron  los  de  fuerzas  cansadas.' 

WEEP  not,  thou  heavenward  pilgrim  here,  around  whose  toilsome  way 
The  gloom  of  many  a  care  is  thrown,  where'er  thy  feet  may  stray ; 
Within  whose  heart  some  tender  pulse  must  echo  unto  pain, 
When  tried  by  this  relentless  world,  where  every  dream  is  vain  ; 
Weep  not,  though  o'er  the  living  glow  of  Pleasure's  brightest  wreath, 
Fate's  swift  and  frequent  tempests  leave  the  cloudy  stain  of  death : 
For  endless  raptures  shall  be  thine,  in  mansions  of   the  blest. 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Thou  must  bend  unto  the  Chastener  here,  and  see  the  deeply  lov'd, 
The  pure  and  beautiful  of  earth,  by  early  death  removed  ; 
Thou  must  mark  on  many  a  blighted  cheek,  the  hectic  mildew  cling, 
Thou  must  bend  beneath  Time's  shadowy  frown,  when  snows  are  on 

his  wing, 

Till  the  peace  which  passeth  knowledge  is  garnered  in  thy  soul, 
Till  the  silver  cord  is  broken,  and  crush'd  the  golden  bowl; 
Till  the  bright  and  glorious  streets  of  heaven  are  by  thy  feet  imprest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

How  many  flowers  will  rise  and  bloom,  a  flood  of  sweets  to  pour 
Across  the  mazes  of  thy  way,  that  earth  cannot  restore ! 
How  many  fond  eyes,  full  of  love,  will  in  the  grave  be  hid — 
How  will  the  dark  and  heavy  pall  press  on  each  folded  lid! 
Thou  must  pile  the  grave's  remorseless  clod  on  many  a  pallid  brow, 
And  lift  the  serenade  of  death,  beneath  the  cypress  bough: 
Till  with  a  pale  and  deluged  cheek,  and  with  a  yearning  breast, 
Thou  wilt  long  for  pinions  of  a  dove,  to  soar  and  be  at  rest. 

Yet  it  is  but  for  a  season  —  and  thy  trials  all  are  past, 

And  then!  upon  the  empyreal  air  thy  spirit-wings  are  cast; 

Then  the  bonds  of  earth  will  sunder,  and  thine  ear  will  drink  the  song 

That  floats  the  vernal  pastures  and  crystal  waves  along : 

Thou  wilt  join  the  lost  and  lovely  that  have  gone  before  to  GOD, 

In  a  glad  «  continual  city,'  by  the  earth's  redeemed  ones  trod ; 

Where  each  angel-plume  is  folded  o'er  a  peaceful  brow  and  breast, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


448  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    SIGNS   OF    GOD. 

I  MARK'D  the  Spring  as  she  pass'd  along, 

With  her  eye  of  light,  and  her  lip  of  song  ; 

While  she  stole  in  peace  o'er  the  green  earth's  breast, 

While  the  streams  sprang  out  from  their  icy  rest : 

The  buds  bent  low  to  the  breeze's  sigh, 

And  their  breath  went  forth  in  the  scented  sky  ; 

When  the  fields  look'd  fresh  in  their  sweet  repose, 

And  the  young  dews  slept  on  the  new-born  rose. 

The  scene  was  changed.     It  was  Autumn's  hour : 
A  frost  had  discolor'd  the  summer  bower ; 
The  blast  wailed  sad  mid  the  with^r'd  leaves, 
The  reaper  stood  musing  by  gather'd  sheaves  ; 
The  mellow  pomp  of  the  rainbow  woods 
Was  stirr'd  by  the  sound  of  the  rising  floods ; 
And  I  knew  by  the  cloud,  by  the  wild  wind's  strain, 
That  Winter  drew  near  with  his  storms  again  ! 

I  stood  by  the  ocean ;  its  waters  rolled 

In  their  changeful  beauty  of  sapphire  and  gold ; 

And  day  looked  down  with  its  radiant  smiles, 

Where  the  blue  waves  danced  round  a  thousand  isles : 

The  ships  went  forth  on  the  trackless  seas, 

Their  white  wings  play'd  in  the  joyous  breeze  ; 

Their  prows  rushed  on  mid  the  parted  foam, 

While  the  wanderer  was  wrapp'd  in  a  dream  of  home  ! 

The  mountain  arose  with  its  lofty  brow, 
While  its  shadow  was  sleeping  in  vales  below  ; 
The  mist  like  a  garland  of  glory  lay, 
Where  its  proud  heights  soar'd  in  the  air  away ; 
The  eagle  was  there  on  his  tireless  wing, 
And  his  shriek  went  up  like  an  offering  : 
And  he  seem'd,  in  his  sunward  flight,  to  raise 
A  chant  of  thanksgiving  —  a  hymn  of  praise  ! 


THE    SIGNS    OF    GOD.  449 

I  look'd  on  the  arch  of  the  midnight  skies, 
With  its  blue  and  unsearchable  mysteries  : 
The  moon,  mid  an  eloquent  multitude 
Of  unnumber'd  stars,  her  career  pursued : 
A  charm  of  sleep  on  the  city  fell, 
All  sounds  lay  hush'd  in  that  brooding  spell  ; 
By  babbling  brooks  were  the  buds  at  rest, 
And  the  wild-bird  dream'd  on  his  downy  nest. 

I  stood  where  the  deepening  tempest  pass'd, 
The  strong  trees  groan'd  in  the  sounding  blast ; 
The  murmuring  deep  with  its  wrecks  roll'd  on, 
The  clouds  o'ershadow'd  the  mighty  sun ; 
The  low  reeds  bent  by  the  streamlet's  side, 
And  hills  to  the  thunder-peal  replied ; 
The  lightning  burst  forth  on  its  fearful  way, 
While  the  heavens  were  lit  in  its  red  array  ! 

And  hath  MAN  the  power,  with  his  pride  and  his  skill, 

To  arouse  all  nature  with  storms  at  will? 

Hath  he  power  to  color  the  summer-cloud  — 

To  allay  the  tempest  when  hills  are  bow'd  ? 

Can  he  waken  the  Spring  with  her  festal  wreath  ? 

Can  the  sun  grow  dim  by  his  lightest  breath? 

Will  he  come  again  when  death's  vale  is  trod  ? 

Who  then  shall  dare  murmur  *  There  is  no  God  T 

29 


460  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


MEMORY. 

'Tis  sweet  to  remember !     I  would  not  forego 

The  charm  which  the  past  o'er  the  present  can  throw*. 

For  all  the  gay  visions  that  Fancy  may  weave 

In  her  web  of  illusion,  that  shines  to  deceive. 

We  know  not  the  future  —  the  past  we  have  felt  — 

Its  cherish'd  enjoyments  the  bosom  can  melt ; 

Its  raptures  anew  o'er  our  pulses  may  roll, 

When  thoughts  of  the  morrow  fall  cold  on  the  soul. 

'Tis  sweet  to  remember!  When  storms  are  abroad, 
To  see  in  the  rainbow  the  promise  of  GOD  : 
The  day  may  be  darken'd,  but  far  in  the  west, 
In  vermilion  and  gold,  sinks  the  sun  to  his  resl  ; 
With  smiles  like  the  morning  he  passeth  away  : 
Thus  the  beams  of  delight  on  the  spirit  can  play, 
When  in  calm  reminiscence  we  gather  the  flowers 
Which  love  scatter'd  round  us  in  happier  hours. 

'Tis  sweet  to  remember!    When  friends  are  unkind, 

When  their  coldness  and  carelessness  shadow  the  mind  ? 

Then,  to  draw  back  the  veil  which  envelopes  a  land 

Where  delectable  prospects  in  beauty  expand; 

To  smell  the  green  fields,  the  fresh  waters  to  hear 

Whose  once  fahy  music  enchanted  the  ear ; 

To  drink  in  the  smiles  that  delighted  us  then, 

To  list  the  fond  voices  of  childhood  again ; 

O,  this  the  sad  heart,  like  a  reed  that  is  bruised, 

Binds  up,  when  the  banquet  of  hope  is  refused. 

'Tis  sweet  to  remember !  And  naught  can  destroy 

The  balm-breathing  comfort,  the  glory,  the  joy, 

Which  spring  from  that  fountain  to  gladden  our  way, 

When  the  changeful  and  faithless  desert  or  betray. 

I  would  not  forget!    though  my  thoughts  should  be  dark,. 

O'er  the  ocean  of  life  I  look  back  from  my  bark, 

And  I  see  the  lost  Eden,  where  once  I  was  blest, 

A  type  and  a  promise  of  heavenly  rest. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  BEDELL.        451 


ON    THE    DEATH   OF   DR.   BEDELL. 

HE  has  gone  to  a  mansion  of  rest, 

From  a  region  of  sorrow  and  pain ; 
To  the  glorious  Land  of  the  Blest, 

Where  he  never  can  suffer  again : 
The  pangs  of  affliction  and  sickness  are  o'er  — 
The  cloud  on  his  spirit  will  darken  no  more! 

He  has  gone,  like  the  life-waking  sun, 

Descending  the  radiant  sky; 
Ere  the  stars  have  their  shining  begun, 

And  are  hid  by  the  day-beams  on  high; 
The  night  could  not  rest  on  the  wings  of  his  soul, 
Nor  the  shadows  of  earth  their  uprising  control. 

The  watchman  is  missed  from  the  wall, 
Where  his  warnings  so  often  have  rung; 

No  more  the  affectionate  call, 

Or  remonstrance,  will  melt  from  his  tongue; 

There  is  dust  on  his  lip,  and  the  shroud  on  his  breast, 

And  the  deep  seal  of  peace  on  his  eyelid  is  prest. 

How  oft,  when  the  sanctified  air 

Round  the  altar  with  music  was  filled, 
Have  the  words  of  his  eloquent  prayer 

Gone  forth,  like  rich  incense  distilled; 
Like  the  breath  of  Spring  roses  ascending  the  skies, 
To  GOD,  an  acceptable  sacrifice. 

His  heart  was  a  fountain  of  love  — 

It  stirred  in  the  light  of  his  mind, 
Whose  glory  was  caught  from  above, 

Where  the  pearl  of  great  price  was  enshrined ; 
He  taught  the  dark  spirit  to  look  to  its  ray, 
And  to  feel  its  warm  glow  in  life's  gloomiest  day. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

He  knew  that  our  pilgrimage  here 
Was  a  dream  :  he  remembered  as  dust 

The  throngs  that  assembled  to  hear, 
And  bade  them  in  heaven  to  trust. 

And  armed  with  persuasion,  and  pity,  and  prayer, 

He  shunned  not  the  counsel  of  GOD  to  declare. 

How  oft  like  the  heart-moving  Paul, 

Did  he  beckon  with  wavering  hand, 
Till  silence  around  him  would  fall, 

Then,  echo  his  SAVIOUR'S  command; 
Till  his  magical  accents  the  hearer  received, 
Their  soberness  treasured,  and  hearing,  believed. 

Who  mourns  that  his  garland  is  won, 

That  the  crown  on  his  forehead  is  bright? 

That  his  trials  and  labors  are  done, 
That  his  spirit  rejoices  in  light? 

Who  weeps  that  our  loss  is  his  infinite  gain, 

Where  Death  may  not  enter,  and  Sin  cannot  stain? 

He  walks  in  the  smile  of  his  GOD, 

And  looks  o'er  those  realms  of  the  sky, 

Where  Mortality's  foot  never  trod, 
Unseen  by  Mortality's  eye : 

Where  calm  by  green  pastures,  and  dwellings  of  gold, 

The  waters  of  life  all  their  splendor  unfold. 

And  he  sees  in  the  shadowless  air, 

That  lofty  and  beautiful  tree, 
Whose  blossoms  and  fruits  blooming  fair, 

Are  spread  for  the  ransomed  to  see ; 
He  hears  the  glad  harpers  that  linger  beneath, 
And  feels  not  the  fear  of  corruption  or  death. 

Oh,  leave  him  to  rest  with  his  GOD, 

To  join  in  that  music  benign 
Which  swells  o'er  his  blessed  abode, 

Where  every  sight  is  divine, 
Where  flowers  immortal  with  lustre  are  fed, 
From  the  source  of  all  glory  unceasingly  shed! 


BOOTS.  463 


BOOTS: 

A     SLIPSHODICAL     LYRIC. 

THE  watch  has  brawl'd  '  elevin,'  and  the  moon 

Walks  through  the  evening  heaven  like  a  queen, 

Raining  soft  influences  on  lovers'  minds, 

While  I,  with  fragrant  and  serene  cigar 

Prest  satisfactorily  betwixt  my  lips, 

Am  lounging  in  that  Traveller's  Paradise, 

Hight  bar-room  in  the  vulgate,  looking  round, 

With  honest  speculation  in  mine  eye 

In  quest  of  food  for  thought.     By  Jove,  'tis  here ! 

I  have't :  in  yonder  huge  and  gloomy  pile 

Of  travellers'  boots,  is  inspiration  hid. 

Come,  bustle,  honest  Muse,  and  help  me  sing, 

In  fanciful  disportings  on  the  theme, 

Till  from  this  scented  tube  departs  the  fire, 

And  all  its  ashes  slumber  on  my  lyre. 

Time  was,  when  boots  were  not ;  when  graceful  feet 

Of  men  and  women,  unrestricted,  prest 

Their  mother  earth  denuded.     Then,  suddenly, 

The  Greek  and  Roman  sandal  came  in  vogue : 

August  Athena's  streets,  to  soles  of  cork, 

Trod  by  philosophers  and  stoics  —  Jews, 

Cretes  and  Arabians  —  echoed  as  they  trode  ; 

And  e'en  the  solemn  groves  of  Academe 

Beheld  the  feet  that  bore  a  master  mind 

'Neath  Plato's  lofty  and  impressive  brow, 

Press  the  gay  sandal  on  the  olive  leaves, 

Which  autumn  winds  had  shaken  to  the  ground. 

In  Rome,  the  tribune,  lictor,  senator, 

Proconsul,  headsman,  and  centurion, 

The  graceful  sandal  wore.     Apostles,  too, 

Did  patronize  the  article.     The  light 

Which  burst  on  Peter's  dungeon,  as  he  lay 

Hedged  in  by  soldiers  at  the  midnight  hour,. 


454  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Was  scattered  from  an  angel's  odorous  wing, 

And  on  the  prisoner's  chains  and  sandals  streamed; 

The  first  fell  off— the  latter  he  did  don, 

And  walked  abroad  in  freedom.     And  in  sooth, 

Where'er  the  Greek  or  Roman  power  had  sway, 

The  sandal,  with  its  dainty  tie,  became 

The  fashionable  thing. 

At  last  boots  came  ; 

But  how,  or  when,  it  boots  not  now  to  tell, 

Save  that  they  did  advene  ;  and  through  all  time 

Since  their  first  origin,  have  kept  their  state, 

Circling  the  calves  of  youth,  and  the  slim  shanks 

Of  weak  and  trembling  age.     Of  various  name, 

Their  titles  I  invoke  not  —  for  I  know 

Their  number  numberless ;  nor  eke  of  style, 

Of  Wellington,  Suwarrow,  tasselled,  laced, 

Civil,  or  military ;  seven-leagued, 

Or  Chinese  kinds,  diminished,  have  I  time 

To  dwell  on  at  this  present,  nor  need  tell 

How  since  their  date,  their  fabricators  swarm. 

St.  Crispin's  followers  are  every  where  : 

In  France,  the  cordonnier ;  in  England,  named 

Knights  of  the  enwaxed  end.     The  race  is  large, 

And  keep  their  azure  Mondays  —  festivals 

Of  old  renown  —  with  wassail  and  with  song. 

My  present  business  doth  not  lie  with  these, 

But  rather  to  discourse,  as  in  me  lies, 

About  this  pile  of  boots  before  mine  eyes. 

It  seems  to  rise,  as  if  its  apex  strove 

To  reach  that  constellation,  Bootes  y'clept, 

To  which  Arcturus  clings.     But  I  demand 

My  fancy  from  the  stars,  to  help  me  here. 

There  stands  a  scurvy  pair,  with  tops  of  red, 
Sore  wasted  at  the  heel,  and  slim  at  toe. 
The  straps  are  broken;  and  the  owner's  mind 
And  disposition,  thus  to  me  exposed, 
Are  clear,  as  if  I  knew  him.     He's  a  young 
And  hair-brained  biped,  has  a  sprawling  foot, 


BOOTS.  455 

But  fain  would  be  'genteel,'  and  so  has  cased 

His  pedal  adjuncts  in  a  narrow  space, 

By  much  too  small  for  comfort.     When  he  draws 

Those  boots  upon  his  legs  at  morn,  he  chafes, 

And  stamps  the  floor,  and  vents  the  spiteful  'd— •— ni' 

Because  they  will  not  on.     When  in  the  street, 

He  hath  a  rapid  gait,  and  stalks  abroad, 

On  politics  or  business,  with  an  air, 

As  if  a  nation's  cares  were  on  his  mind, 

Heavy  as  Atlas'  load.     Be  sure,  that  man 

Loves,  eats,  and  drinks,  and  all  his  acts  performs, 

In  the  Cainbyses'  vein. 

Adjacent  riseth,  with  the  look  of  eld, 
A  pair  affair-tops',  and  to  Fancy's  eye, 
Their  owner  stands  beside  them.     He  is  one 
Now  near  the  turn  of  sixty,  and  his  hau 
ls  powdered,  white  as  snow-wreaths ;  and  his  cane 
Is  headed  o'er  with  gold.     Whene'er  he  treads, 
The  spotless  dust  on  broadcloth  collar  falls; 
And  as  he  walks  the  street,  full  many  a  hat 
Is  touched  to  do  him  reverence.     At  his  board 
The  choicest  wines  are  found,  that,  quick  and  warm, 
Ascend  them  to  the  brain.     He  readeth  loud 
The  liturgy  o'  Sundays — while  the  priest 
Whenas  he  glanceth  tow'rd  his  cushioned  pew, 
Bethinks  him  of  that  layman's  sumptuous  fare. 

I  like  not  that  next  pair — a  clumsy  mass 

Of  ill-conditioned  leather.     To  a  boor, 

A  walking  porker,  do  I  quickly  trace 

Their  certain  ownership.     What  sprawling  heels! 

And  holes  are  cut  anigh  the  spreading  toes, 

As  if  the  ponderous  feet  in  that  wide  space 

Had  still  been  'cabined,  cribbed,'  and  wanted  room; 

Or  else,  that  doleful  crops  of  pedal  maize, 

Called  by  the  vulgar  corns,  had  flourished  there. 

I  see  the  wearer  plainly.     Large  of  form, 

He  moves  abroad  like  stern  Rhinoceros 

Or  Behemoth  in  the  ocean ;  or,  to  rise 


456  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  metaphor,  like  old  Sam.  Johnson's  form 

Wending  along  Cheapside.     In  public  haunt* 

He  of  his  self-deportment  takes  no  heed, 

And  spitteth  evermore.     His  lips  are  scaled 

And  juicy,  like  wind-beparched  mouth 

Of  ichthyophagous  Kamschatkadale ;  and  oft 

With  three  sheets  in  the  wind,  in  upper  tier 

Midst  mirthful  Cyprians,  he  puts  his  feet 

Over  the  box's  front,  and  leaning  back, 

Guffaws  and  swears,  like  privateer  at  see, 

Until  the  pitlings  from  beneath,  exclaim, 

*  Boots  !'  «  Trollope  !'  and  he  straightway  draws  them  in. 


MY  fragrant  tube  is  out  —  and  objects  swim 
Like  coming  dreams  before  my  drowsy  eyes  ; 
Yet  one  more  pair  of  boots,  ere  I  retire, 
I  fain,  in  thoughtful  mood,  would  scrutinize, 
A  dapper  pair,  yet  gaudy  not,  but  neat, 
As  if  they  needed  neither  brush  nor  shine, 
For  marks  of  both  they  bear.     He  who  inserts 
His  understanding  in  them,  comes  to  town 
A  merchant,  trafficking  and  getting  gain  : 
He  hath  a  wife  and  pleasant  babes  at  home, 
To  whom  the  squeak  of  those  familiar  soles 
Is  like  to  heavenly  music.     That  wife  delights, 
What  time  she  sweetly  '  plies  her  evening  care,' 
To  hear  that  squeak,  and  see  the  infant  smile, 
Tilted  on  parent  knee.     He  lives  and  trades 
In  a  fair  village,  '  throned  by  the  West,' 
Embowered  in  trees,  and  reached  by  rural  roads, 
All  variously  diverging,  where  in  throngs, 
The  wealthy  farmers  come.     He  leads  the  choir 
At  church,  and  sets  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  tune 
The  pitch-pipe  blows,  and  is,  hi  all  respects, 
The  magnate  of  the  village. 


MY  subjects  multiply  —  but  to  my  gaze, 
Half  dimmed  with  sleep,  fantastic  boots  arise, 


BOOTS. 

And  turn  to  shapes,  and  menace  me  with  fear 
Of  kicks  and  damage,  if  I  publish  them. 
I  shrink  from  such  a  penalty.     Now  dreams, 
And  shades,  and  forms,  and  fluttering  entities, 
Surround  my  brain  so  fast,  that  I  opine 
My  wakefulness  is  doubtful.     Yea  it  is  — 
And  all  my  pictures  do  themselves  resolve 
To  mere  oblivion. 


457 


458  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


PRAYER. 

WHEN  on  the  sad  and  yearning  heart 

The  clouds  of  early  sorrow  fall, 
Oh !  what  shall  bid  their  gloom  depart, 

And  lift  the  spirit  from  their  thrall? 
When  'neath  the  foldings  of  the  pall 

The  lost  and  beautiful  are  laid, 
Oh,  who  shall  answer  to  the  call 

By  watchful  love  in  anguish  made? 

When  from  our  daily  paths,  like  flowers, 

Our  kindred  wither  one  by  one, 
Ah !  what  shall  gild  the  weary  hours, 

Or  bring  again  the  unshadow'd  sun 
His  bright  and  golden  course  to  run  ? 

To  chase  the  clouds  that  round  him  rise — 
Recal  again  each  lustre  gone, 

And  bathe  in  light  the  uplifted  skies  ? 

When,  with  a  shadow  o'er  them  flung, 

Appear  the  sere  autumnal  trees; 
And  every  blast  their  boughs  among 

Awakens  mournful  images; 
What,  on  the  lapse  of  hours  like  these, 

Can  earth,  with  all  its  phantoms,  fling, 
When  Hope  hath  ceased  her  melodies, 

And  folded  up  her  rainbow-wing  ? 

Is  it  not  sweet,  when  song  and  dream 

Have  pass'd,  like  sunset's  sky  of  fire, 
When  Love's  false  pinion  sheds  no  gleam 

O'er  Pleasure's  crushed  and  tuneless  lyre, 
To  raise  with  purified  desire 

The  prayer,  in  earnest  suppliance  given, 
Which  lifts  the  immortal  spirit  higher, 

And  antedates  the  joy  of  Heaven  ? 


THE    HEXEN    ZEE.  459 


THE    HEXEN    ZEE.» 

1  How  glumly  sownes  yon  dirgy  songe  ! 

Night-ravens  flappe  the  wing  ; 
What  bell  doth  slowly  toll  ding  dong  ? 

The  psalms  of  death  who  sing  ? 
Look  up,  look  up  !  an  airy  crew 

In  roundel  daunces  reele  : 
The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night  — 

Mays't  see  them  dimly  wheele.'—  BURGEE. 

I. 

TWAS  a  sunset  hour,  and  the  waters  play'd 

Like  living  light  on  the  golden  sand  : 
The  dark  green  trees  by  the  gale  were  sway'd 

As  their  wings  swept  over  the  quiet  land: 
And  as  those  wavelets  kissed  the  shore 

With  a  gush  of  delicate  melody, 
They  seemed  in  a  traveller's  ear  to  pour 

This  marvellous  tale  of  the  Hexen  Zee  : 


«'Tis  a  haunted  place  where  thou  art  now, 

And  when  the  west  hath  lost  the  sun, 
And  silvery  moon-beams  waver  slow, 

Where  here  the  chasing  billows  run  ; 
When  fairy  mists  like  spirits  throng 

About  this  undulating  tide, 
Then  sweep  the  witches'  trains  along, 

And  charm  the  air  whereon  they  ride. 


«And,  as  between  the  waning  moon 
And  Brocken's  height  their  forms  are  seen, 

While  midnight's  melancholy  noon 
Extends  its  thoughtful  reign  serene, 


*THB  Hexen  Zee,  or  Witches'  Lake,  is  described  by  modern  travellers  in  Germany  as  one  of 
the  neighboring  wonders  of  the  Brocken  mountain.  It  is  not  wide,  but,  according  to  tradi 
tion,  unlathomably  deep. 


460  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Their  rustling  folds  are  heard  above, 

The  branches  groan  in  eveiy  tree  ; 
Till  on  the  lake  these  spectres  move, 

And  sing  this  song  of  the  Hexen  Zee  :r 

IV. 

'  Our  boat  is  strong,  its  oars  are  good, 

Of  charnel  bones  its  ribs  are  made ; 
From  coffins  old  we  carved  the  wood, 

Beneath  the  gloomy  cypress  shade; 
An  ignis-fatuus  lights  the  prow, 

It  is  a  felon's  blood-shot  e'e, 
And  it  shineth  forth  from  his  skeleton  brow, 

To  light  our  way  o'er  the  Hexen  Zee. 

v. 
'  There's  a  scream  of  dreaming  birds  afar, 

And  a  hollow  blast  in  the  old  Hartz  wood : 
Our  course  was  marked  by  the  evening  star, 

By  the  wakeful  eagle's  glance  pursued : 
The  tree-toad  moaned  on  the  mossy  limb, 

And  plunged  in  the  pool  'neath  the  dark  yew-tree, 
But  what  care  we  for  *  the  likes  of  him,' 

While  we  sing  and  sail  on  the  Hexen  Zee  ? 

VI. 

'  We  have  come  over  forest,  and  glen,  and  moor, 

We  have  ivy  leaves  from  the  castle  wall ; 
We  roved  by  the  huts  of  the  sleeping  poor, 

And  we  heard  their  faithful  watch-dogs  call; 
Over  cities  and  hamlets  in  haste  we  swept — 

Over  gardens  and  turrets — o'er  hill  and  lea; 
Our  race  now  pauseth,  our  pledge  we  have  kept, 

And  together  we  sail  on  the  Hexen  Zee. 


*  There's  a  vapor  of  gray,  and  a  crimson  hue, 
In  the  wake  of  our  bark  as  we  haste  along; 

The  sails  are  clothed  in  a  flame  of  blue, 
And  our  voices  are  hoarse  with  this  elfin  songt 


THE    HEXEN    ZEE.  461 

The  finny  tribes  as  they  cross  our  wake, 

A-floating  in  lifeless  throngs  we  see ; 
To  Hecate  an  offering  thus  we  make, 

Who  is  fond  of  fish  from  the  Hexen  Zee. 


'Look  to  the  east!  there  the  dawn  is  red, 

Through  the  cedar  branches  it  'gins  to  glow; 
Our  song  must  be  ended  —  our  spell  is  dead, 

Away  to  our  cloudy  homes  we  go  : 
The  charm  is  finished  ;  the  distant  chime 

Of  bells  are  echoing  one  —  two  —  three  ; 
We  will  mount  the  blast and  depart  in  time, 

Afar  from  the  haunted  Hexen  Zee.' 


462  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ELEGIAC    STANZAS. 

THOU  art  laid  to  rest  in  the  spring-time  hours, 

In  the  freshness  of  early  feeling ; 
While  the  dew  yet  lies  on  the  new-born  flowers, 

And  winds  through  the  wood-paths  are  stealing ; 
While  yet  life  was  gay  to  thine  ardent  eye, 

While  its  rich  hopes  filled  thy  bosom ; 
While  each  dream  was  pure  as  the  upper  sky, 

And  sweet  as  the  opening  blossom : 
But  thy  promise  of  being,  which  shone  so  fair, 
Hath  passed  like  a  summer  cloud  in  air ; 
Thy  bosom  is  cold,  which  with  love  was  warm, 
And  the  grave  embraces  thy  gentle  form. 

Thou  art  slumbering  now  in  a  voiceless  cell, 

While  Nature  her  garland  is  wreathing ; 
While  the  earth  seems  touched  with  a  radiant  spell, 

And  the  air  of  delight  is  breathing ; 
While  the  day  looks  down  with  a  mellow  beam, 

Where  the  roses  in  light  are  blushing  : 
While  the  young  leaves  dance  with  a  fitful  gleam, 

And  the  stream  into  song  is  gushing; 
While  bright  wings  play  in  the  golden  sun, 
The  tomb  hath  caressed  thee,  thou  faded  one! 
The  clod  lies  cold  on  that  settled  brow, 
Which  was  beaming  with  pleasure  and  youth  but  now. 

Should  we  mourn  that  Death's  Angel,  on  dusky  wing, 

O'er  thy  flowery  path  has  driven  ? 
That  he  crushed  the  buds  of  thy  sunny  spring  — 

That  thy  spirit  is  borne  to  heaven  ? 
How  soon  will  the  visions  of  earth  grow  dim  — 

How  soon  will  its  hopes  be  faded; 
And  the  heart  that  hath  leaped  to  the  syren's  hymn, 

With  sadness  and  gloom  be  o'ershaded ! 
The  feelings  are  fresh  but  a  little  while ; 
We  can  bask  but  an  hour  in  affection's  smile, 


ELEGIAC    STANZAS. 

Ere  the  friend  and  the  lover  have  passed  away  — 
Ere  the  anthem  is  sung  o'er  their  wasting  clay? 

Then  take  thy  rest  in  that  shadowy  hall, 

In  thy  mournful  shroud  reposing  ; 
There  is  no  cloud  on  the  soul  to  fall, 

No  dust  o'er  its  light  is  closing: 
It  will  shine  in  glory  when  time  is  o'er, 

When  each  phantom  of  earth  shall  wither; 
When  the  friends  who  deplore  thee  shall  sigh  no  mow, 

And  lie  down  in  the  dust  together: 
Though  sad  winds  wail  in  the  cypress  bough, 
Thou  art  resting  untroubled  and  calmly  now: 
With  a  seal  of  sleep  on  thy  folded  eye, 
While  thy  spirit  is  glad  in  the  courts  on  high. 


464  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


LOVE'S    RIVAL. 

'  TREVYLYAN  drew  back,  and  without  another  word,  hurried  away ;  he  returned  to  the  town ; 
he  sought,  with  methodical  calmness,  the  owner  of  a  piece  of  ground  on  which  GERTRUDE  had 
wished  to  be  buried.  He  purchased  it,  and  that  very  night  he  sought  the  priest  of  a  neighbor 
ing  church,  and  directed  it  should  be  consecrated  according  to  the  due  rite  and  ceremonial. 

'  The  priest,  an  aged  and  pious  man,  was  struck  by  the  request,  and  the  air  of  him  who 
made  it. 

' '  Shall  it  be  done  forthwith,  Sir  ?'  said  he,  hesitating.  '  Forthwith,'  answered  TREVYLYAN 
with  a  calm  smile  ;  '  a  bridegroom,  you  know,  is  naturally  impatient.' ' 

PILGRIMS  OF  THE  RHINE. 

OH,  Ihou  that  lovest !  do  not  deem  thou  hast  no  rival  nigh, 

To  interrupt  thy  visions,  or  cloud  thy  golden  sky  ; 

And  though  Hope's  syren  voice  beguile,  believe  not  all  her  song, 

Nor  deem  the  joys  enduring  that  to  the  lay  belong. 

Thou  hast  a  rival,  lover,  however  blest  thou  art, 

How  dear  soe'er  the  object  be,  that  kindles  up  thy  heart ; 

There  may  be  bloom  upon  her  cheek,  light  on  her  forehead  fair, 

And  balm  upon  her  rich  red  lip,  as  sweet  as  roses  are  ; 

And  kindness  in  her  lustrous  eyes  on  thee  alone  bestowed, 

The  stars  that  guide  thy  pilgrimage  on  life's  uncertain  road; 

It  may  appear  that  all  in  all,  thou  art  alone  to  her, 

And  yet,  thou  hast  a  rival,  deluded  worshipper! 

Yes,  though  the  kisses  from  her  lips,  when  they  to  thine  are  prest, 
Are  like  the  fragrant  winds  of  Spring  that  wander  from  the  West : 
Though   that  voice  is  kindest  to  thine  ear,  and  though  that   tender  eye 
Is  brighter  when  thy  step  is  heard,  and  when  thy  form  is  nigh ; 
Though  every  glance  be  full  of  love,  yet  fate  will  bid  thee  own 
Thou  hast  a  busy  rival,  thou  idolizing  one  ! 
A  rival,  horrible  and  grim,  yet  wooing  unconfined, 
Whom  tears  nor  prayers  can  overcome,  nor  exorcism  bind. 

He  walks  a  spectre  by  her  side,  impalpable  as  Night  — 
He  wafts  to  her  the  fever-dream,  and  checks  her  young  delight; 
And  though  unseen  by  mortal  eye,  and  clothed  in  vapors  dim, 
He  yet  will  win  her  to  his  arms,  to  sleep  in  peace  with  him : 
He  will  fold  her,  unresisting,  to  his  lone  and  gloomy  breast, 
And  curtains,  dark  as  Midian's  land,  draw  round  her  place  of  rest ; 
And  torn  from  thy  caressing  arms,  fond  lover!  she  will  be 
Within  a  narrow  mansion,  enclosed  away  from  thee. 


LOVE'S  RIVAL.  465 

Death  is  that  rival,  lover!  and  soon  or  late  will  rend 

From  thy  embrace  his  victim,  thy  fond  one,  and  thy  friend  ! 

And  when  he  knocketh  at  thy  door,  thou  canst  not  say  him  nay  — 

He  will  rob  thee  of  thy  treasure,  and  bear  it  hence  away. 

Then  love  with  fear  and  trembling,  the  idol  of  thy  soul  — 

For  life's  bright  cord  is  feeble,  and  frail  its  golden  bowl : 

And  let  the  cloudless  eye  of  faith  the  hour  of  rapture  see, 

When  '  raised  in  incorruption'  ye  both  at  last  may  be ! 

30 


466  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


OCTOBER. 

SOLEMN,  yet  beautiful  to  view, 

Month  of  my  heart !  thou  dawnest  here, 
With  sad  and  faded  leaves  to  strew 

The  Summer's  melancholy  bier. 
The  moaning  of  thy  winds  I  hear, 

As  the  red  sunset  dies  afar, 
And  bars  of  purple  clouds  appear, 

Obscuring  every  western  star. 

Thou  solemn  month !  I  hear  thy  voice, 

It  tells  my  soul  of  other  days, 
When  but  to  live  was  to  rejoice, 

When  earth  was  lovely  to  my  gaze! 
Oh,  visions  bright  —  oh,  blessed  hours, 

Where  are  their  living  raptures  now  ? 
J  ask  my  spirit's  wearied  powers — 

I  ask  my  pale  and  fevered  brow! 

I  look  to  Nature,  and  behold 

My  life's  dim  emblems,  rustling  round, 
In  hues  of  crimson  and  of  gold  — 

The  year's  dead  honors  on  the  ground: 
And  sighing  with  the  winds,  1  feel, 

While  their  low  pinions  murmur  by, 
How  much  their  sweeping  tones  reveal 

Of  life  and  human  destiny. 

When  Spring's  delightsome  moments  shone, 

They  came  in  zephyrs  from  the  West; 
They  bore  the  wood-lark's  melting  tone, 

They  stirred  the  blue  lake's  glassy  breast : 
Though  Summer,  fainting  in  the  heat, 

They  lingered  in  the  forest  shade  ; 
But  changed  and  strengthened  now,  they  beat 

In  storm,  o'er  mountain,  glen  and  glade. 


OCTOBER.  Til 

How  like  those  transports  of  the  breast 

When  life  is  fresh  and  joy  is  new ; 
Soft  as  the  halcyon's  downy  nest, 

And  transient  all  as  they  are  true  ! 
They  stir  the  leave  in  that  bright  wreaths, 

Which  Hope  about  her  forehead  twines, 
Till  Griefs  hot  sighs  around  it  breathe, 

Then  Pleasure's  lip  its  smile  resigns. 

Alas,  for  Time,  and  Death,  and  care, 

What  gloom  about  our  way  they  fling ! 
Like  clouds  in  Autumn's  gusty  air, 

The  burial-pageant  of  the  Spring. 
The  dreams  that  each  successive  year 

Seemed  bathed  in  hues  of  brighter  pride, 
At  last  like  withered  leaves  appear, 

And  sleep  in  darkness,  side  by  side. 


468  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


HYMN 

THE  EIGHTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF    THE   AMERICAN  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  UNION. 

WE  have  met  in  peace  together, 

In  this  house  of  GOD  again : 
Constant  friends  have  led  us  hither, 

Here  to  chaunt  the  solemn  strain: 
Here  to  breathe  our  adoration, 

While  the  balmy  breeze  of  spring, 
Like  the  Spirit  of  Salvation, 

Comes  with  gladness  on  its  wing! 

And,  while  nature  glows  with  beauty, 

While  the  fields  are  rich  in  flowers, 
Shall  our  hearts  neglect  their  duty, 

Shall  our  souls  abuse  their  powers? 
Shall  not  all  our  hopes  ascending, 

Point  us  to  a  home  above, 
Where,  in  glory  never  ending, 

HE  who  made  us  smiles  in  love? 

There  no  autumn-tempests  gather  : 

There  no  friends  lament  the  dead 
And  on  fields  that  never  wither, 

Fadeless  rays  of  light  are  shed  : 
There  with  bright  immortal  roses, 

Angels  wreath  their  harps  of  gold, 
And  each  ransom'd  soul  reposes 

'Midst  a  scene  of  bliss  untold. 

We  have  met,  and  time  is  flying, 

We  shall  part  — and  still  his  wing, 
Sweeping  o'er  the  dead  and  dying, 

Will  the  changeful  seasons  bring; 
Let  us,  while  our  hearts  are  lightest, 

In  our  fresh  and  early  years, 
Turn  to  HIM  whose  smile  is  brightest, 

And  whose  grace  will  calm  our  fears. 


HYMN.  469 

HE  will  aid  us,  though  existence 

With  its  sorrows  sting  the  breast ; 
Gleaming  in  the  onward  distance, 

Faith  will  make  the  Land  of  Rest; 
There,  'mid  day  beams  round  him  playing, 

We  our  FATHER'S  face  shall  see, 
And  shall  hear  HIM  gently  saying, 
'Little  children,  come  to  me.' 


470  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


YESTERDAY. 

AND  where  are  now  thy  sunny  hours, 

Fond  man,  which  shone  but  yesterday? 
Perchance  thy  path  was  rich  with  flowers, 

That  glittered  in  thy  joyous  way  ! 
Perchance  the  Day's  pure  eye  of  light 

Was  one  interminable  smile; 
And  visions,  eloquent  and  bright, 

Stirred  thy  rapt  soul  with  bliss  the  while. 

And  where  are  they  ?  —  the  swelling  tide 

Of  onward  and  resistless  time 
Is  strewn  with  wrecks  of  baffled  pride, 

Conceptions  high,  and  hopes  sublime  ; 
Dreams,  that  have  shed  upon  the  earth 

The  gladdening  hues  of  Paradise ; 
Their  charm  is  flown;  hushed  is  their  mirth, 

And  all  their  kindling  ecstacies  ! 

It  may  be  that  thy  heart  was  sad 

And  wrapt  in  sorrows  yesterday ; 
Perchance  the  scenes  that  once  could  glad 

Thy  spirit,  passed  like  spring  away  ; 
That  on  the  waste  of  years,  was  seen 

Naught  that  might  cheer  thy  gloomy  breast, 
No  sunny  spot,  of  vernal  green, 

On  which  the  thoughtful  eye  could  rest. 

What  recks  it  now,  that  then  a  cloud 

Was  dimly  brooding  o'er  thy  head; 
That  to  the  tempest  thou  hast  bow'd, 

When  Joy's  ephemeral  beams  had  fled  ? 
That  day  hath  gone  —  its  care  is  o'er; 

Its  shadows  all  have  passed  away; 
Time's  wave  hath  murmured  by  that  shore; 

And  round  thee  now  is  but  —  to-day. 


YESTERDAY. 

Then  what  is   Yesterday? — a  breath, 

A  whisper  of  the  summer  breeze ; 
A  thing  of  silent  birth  and  death, 

Colored  by  man's  fond  sympathies  ! 
[t  had  its  buds  —  they  all  are  gone  ; 

Its  fears  —  but  they  are  now  no  more ; 
[ts  hopes  —  but  they  were  quickly  flown: 

Its  pure  delights  —  and  they  are  o'er  ! 

Look  ye  not  back  —  save  but  to  glean 

From  the  deep  memories  of  the  past, 
From  the  illusions  of  each  scene, 

The  thought,  that  time  is  flying  fast; 
That  vanity  on  things  of  Earth 

Is  by  a  pointed  diamond  writ; 
Its  hours  of  wild  and  transient  mirth 

Are  midnight  skies  by  meteors  lit! 

Oh,  what  is   Yesterday  ?  —  a  ray 

Which  burst  on  Being's  troubled  wave; 
"Which  passed  like  a  swift  thought  away 

Unto  Eternity's  wide  grave  ; 
A  star  whose  light  hath  left  the  sky— 

But  for  a  little  moment  given  ; 
Scarce  flickering  on  the  gladdened  eye ; 

Ere  it  hath  left  the  vault  of  Heaven ! 

To-day  !  —  How  in  its  little  span, 

The  interests  of  an  endless  state, 
Beyond  the  feverish  life  of  man, 

Are  crowded  with  their  awful  weight! 
Prayers  may  ascend  ;  the  soul  may  pour 

Its  trembling  supplications  here, 
That  when  Time's  fitful  hour  is  o'er 

Its  hopes  of  Heaven  may  blossom  there ! 


471 


472  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    NAMELESS   GRAVE. 

'Tis  a  calm  spot  in  Summer's  hour  and  in  the  dawn  of  Spring, 
While  buds  come  up,  like  freshening  thoughts  when  Youth  is  on  the 

wing: 

Here,  while  the  unfolding  gates  of  Day,  are  opening  free  and  wide, 
And  glory  robes  the  landscape  round,  in  an  unsullied  pride ; 
While  the  amber  clouds  that  gem  the  West  are  melting  in  the  sun; 
And,  lessening  in  his  radiant  smile,  through  the  far  ether  run: 
Here,  where  beneath  the  sanctity  of  the  bright  azure  sky, 
The  new-born  birds  are  dancing  on  the  south  wind's  fragrant  sigh ; 
Where  the  sun-lit  brook  sends  on  the  ear  the  prattle  of  its  wave, 
And  melts  upon  the  vernal  shore,  is  placed  a  nameless  Grave! 

A  haunt  for  monitory  thought  on  life's  dull  scene  is  this, 

A  lesson  on  its  fleeting  hour,  its  little  day  of  bliss: 

No  sculptured  marble  marks  the  spot  where  this  dull  clay  is  laid; 

No  sigh  is  breathed,  save  of  the  gale,  in  the  dim  cypress  shade ! 

And  who  this  wasting  breast  hath  lov'd,  the  still  grave  answers  not; 

'Tis  only  known  its  throbs  are  hush'd,  its  weariness  forgot: 

The  clod  hath  sent  its  hollow  sound  up  from  the  coffin-lid: 

The  farewell  hath  been  spoken  —  the  familiar  face  been  hid ! 

And  where  are  they,  who  once  did  stand  beside  this  nameless  mound, 

And  felt  the  unhealed  pang  of  Grief — the  bosom's  secret  wound? 

The  love  they  bore,  the  tears  they  shed  ?  oh,  who  the  tale  may  tell! 

The  fitful  winds  no  record  keep,  what  sorrows  then  befell; 

The  sunny  brook  goes  babbling  on;  the  Spring-leaves  come  and  go, 

Yet  they  waken  not  the  heart  that  here  lies  mouldering  and  loty; 

These  ashes  will  not  live  again  till  the  dim  skies  abroad 

Are  as  a  scroll,  and  Earth  and  Sea  heave  in  the  breath  of  GOD! 


THE    ALPS.  473* 


THE   ALPS. 

PROUD  monuments  of  GOD!  sublime  ye  stand, 

Among  the  wonders  of  His  mighty  hand: 

With  summits  soaring  in  the  upper  sky, 

Where  the  broad  day  looks  down  with  burning  eye. 

Where  gorgeous  clouds  in  solemn  pomp  repose, 

Flinging  rich  shadows  on  eternal  snows  : 

Piles  of  triumphant  dust,  ye  stand  alone, 

And  hold  in  kingly  state  a  peerless  throne. 

Like  olden  conquerors,  on  high  ye  rear 
The  regal  ensign  and  the  shining  spear ; 
Round  icy  peaks  the  mists,  in  wreaths  unroll'd, 
Float  ever  near,  in  purple  or  in  gold: 
And  voiceful  torrents,  sternly  rolling  there, 
Fill  with  wild  music  the  unpillared  air  : 
What  garden,  or  what  hall  on  earth  beneath, 
Thrills  to  such  tones  as  o'er  the  mountains  breathe  ? 

There,  through  long  ages  past,  those  summits  shone, 
When  morning  radiance  on  their  state  was  thrown  : 
There,  when  the  summer  day's  career  was  done, 
Played  the  last  glory  of  the  sinking  sun : 
There,  sprinkling  beauty  o'er  the  torrent's  shade, 
The  chastened  moon  her  glittering  rainbow  made : 
And,  blent  with  pictured  stars  her  lustre  lay, 
Where  to  still  vales  the  free  streams  leap'd  away. 

Where  are  the  thronging  hosts  of  other  days, 
Whose  banners  floated  o'er  the  Alpine  ways  ? 
Who  through  their  high  defiles  to  battle  wound, 
While  deadly  ordnance  stirr'd  the  heights  around  1 
Gone  like  a  dream  which  melts  at  early  morn, 
When  the  lark's  anthem  through  the  sky  is  borne ; 


474  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Gone  like  the  hues  that  melt  in  ocean's  spray, 
And  chill  Oblivion  murmurs — where  are  they? 

Yet  '  Alps  on  Alps'  still  rise  —  the  lofty  home 

Of  storms  and  eagles,  where  their  pinions  roani : 

Still  round  their  peaks  the  magic  colors  lie 

Of  morn  or  eve,  imprinted  on  the  sky  ; 

And  still,  when  kings  and  thrones  shall  fade  and  fall, 

And  empty  crowns  lie  dim  upon  the  pall ; 

Still  shall  their  glaciers  flash  —  their  waters  roar, 

Till  nations  fail,  and  kingdoms  rise  no  more. 


THE    YOUTHFUL    DEAD.  475 


THE   YOUTHFUL   DEAD. 

'  WEEP  not  for  the  Youthful  Dead, 
Sleeping  in  their  lowly  bed  ; 
They  are  happier  than  we, 
Howsoever  blest  we  be  !' 

I. 

CAN  the  sigh  be  poured  for  the  Early  Dead, 

On  their  pillows  of  dust  reposing  ? 
Should  the  tear  of  Pain,  in  that  hour  be  shed, 

When  the  earth  o'er  their  slumber  is  closing  ? 
Should  the  winds  of  heaven  in  Evening's  hour 

Bear  the  sighs  of  the  laden  bosom; 
When  the  Young  are  borne  from  Affliction's  power, 

Like  the  Spring's  unsullied  blossom? 
Ere  the  blight  of  crime  on  the  spirit  came  — 
Ere  passion  awakened  its  inward  flame : 
While  the  heart  was  pure,  while  the  brow  was  fair, 
Ere  the  records  of  Evil  had  gathered  there  ? 

n. 

They  have  passed  from  the  shadows  that  haunt  us  round, 

From  the  clouds  that  enthral  existence, 
When  we  look  at  Youth  in  the  backward  ground, 

And  at  Death  in  the  forward  distance! 
No  more  will  the  sombre  pall  of  Fate, 

Like  a  mantle  around  them  gather; 
They  have  gone,  ere  Affection  grew  desolate, 

Or  Hope's  garland  began  to  wither: 
And  they  sleep  like  stars  in  the  upper  air, 
When  the  skies  of  evening  are  deep  and  fair; 
There's  a  halo  of  peace  where  their  ashes  lie, 
As  the  ambient  night-winds  are  hurrying  by. 

in. 
They  are  blest  in  death !  —  for  no  bitter  care 

Will  the  fevered  brow  be  flushing: 
They  departed  while  Being  was  bright  and  fair, 

While  the  fountains  of  Feeling  were  gushing; 


476  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then  let  them  sleep  'in  their  lowly  bed;' 

Let  Hope  be  amidst  our  sorrow; 
There  is  peace  in  the  Night  of  the  Early  Dead  — 

It  will  yield  to  a  glorious  morrow ! 
They  will  rise  like  buds  from  the  glebe  of  spring, 
When  the  young  birds  play  on  the  changeful  wing ; 
They  faded  ere  sin  could  beguile  the  breast; 
They  will  wake  in  the  regions  of  Endless  Rest! 


OLD    SONGS.  477 


OLD   SONGS. 

GIVE  me  the  songs  I  loved  to  hear, 

In  sweet  and  sunny  days  of  yore; 
Which  came  in  gushes  to  my  ear 

From  lips  that  breathe  them  now  no  more; 
From  lips,  alas!  on  which  the  worm, 

In  coiled  and  dusty  silence  lies, 
Where  many  a  loved,   lamented  form 

Is  hid  from  Sorrow's  filling  eyes ! 

yes!  when  those  unforgotten  lays, 

Come  trembling  with  a  spirit- voice, 
I  mind  me  of  those  early  days, 

When  to  respire  was  to  rejoice : 
When  gladsome  flowers  and  fruitage  shone 

Where'er  my  willing  footstep  fell ; 
When  Hope's  bright  realm  was  all  mine  own, 

And  Fancy  whispered,  'All  is  well.' 

Give  me  old  songs !     They  stir  my  heart 

As  with  some  glorious  trumpet-tone: 
Beyond  the  reach  of  modern  art, 

They  rule  its  thrilling  cords  alone, 
Till,  on  the  wings  of  thought,  I  fly, 

Back  to  that  boundary  of  bliss, 
Which  once  beneath  my  childhood's  sky 

Embraced  a  scene  of  loveliness ! 

Thus,  when  the  portals  of  mine  ear 

Those  long-remembered  lays  receive, 
They  seem  like  guests,  whose  voices  cheer 

My  breast,  and  bid  it  not  to  grieve  : 
They  ring  in  cadences  of  love, 

They  tell  of  dreams  now  vanished  all; 
Dreams,  that  descended  from  above  — 

Visions,  't  is  rapture  to  recall! 


478  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Give  me  old  songs  !     I  know  not  why, 

But  every  tone  they  breathe  to  me 
Is  fraught  with  pleasures  pure  and  high, 

With  honest  love  or  honest  glee  : 
They  move  me,  when  by  chance  I  hear, 

They  rouse  each  slumbering  pulse  anew; 
Till  every  scene  to  memory  dear 

Is  pictured  brightly  to  my  view. 

I  do  not  ask  those  sickly  lays 

O'er  which  affected  maidens  bend ; 

Which  scented  fops  are  bound  to  praise, 
To  which  dull  crowds  their  homage  lend 

Give  me  some  simple  Scottish  song, 
Or  lays,  from  Erin's  distant  isle ; 

Lays  that  to  love  and  truth  belong, 
And  cause  the  saddest  lip  to  smile! 


DEATH    OF    THE    FIRST-BORN.  479 


DEATH  OF   THE   FIRST-BORN. 

'  AH  !  weladay  !  most  angelike  of  face, 
A  childe,  young  in  his  pure  innocence, 
Tender  of  limbes,  GOD  wote  full  guiltilesse, 
The  goodly  faire  that  lieth  here  speechelesse. 
A  mouth  he  has,  but  wordis  hath  he  none ; 
Cannot  complain,  alas  !  for  none  outrage, 
Ne  gruteheth  not,  but  lies  here  all  alone, 
Still  as  a  lambe,  most  meke  of  his  visage : 
What  heart  of  steele  could  do  to  him  damage, 
Or  suffer  him  die,  beholding  the  manere, 
And  look  benign  of  his  twin  eyen  clere  ?' 

LYDOATE. 

YOUNG  mother,  he  is  gone! 
His  dimpled  cheek  no  more  will  touch  thy  breast; 

No  more  the  music-tone 

Float  from  his  lips,  to  thine  all  fondly  press'd ; 
His  smile  and  happy  laugh  are  lost  to  thee: 
Earth  must  his  mother  and  his  pillow  be. 

His  was  the  morning  hour, 
And  he  had  pass'd  in  beauty  from  the  day, 

A  bud,  not  yet  a  flower, 

Torn,  in  its  sweetness,  from  the  parent  spray ; 
The  death-wind  swept  him  to  his  soft  repose, 
As  frost,  in  spring-time,  blights  the  early  rose. 

Never  on  earth  again 
Will  his  rich  accents  charm  thy  listening  ear, 

Like  some  jEolian  strain, 
Breathing  at  eventide  serene  and  clear ; 
His  voice  is  choked  in  dust,  and  on  his  eyes 
The  unbroken  seal  of  peace  and  silence  lies. 

And  from  thy  yearning  heart, 
Whose  inmost  core  was  warm  with  love  for  him, 

A  gladness  must  depart, 

And  those  kind  eyes  with  many  tears  be  dim ; 
While  lonely  memories,  an  unceasing  train, 
Will  turn  the  raptures  of  the  past  to  pain, 


480  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Yet,  mourner,  while  the  day 
Jlolls  like  the  darkness  of  a  funeral  by, 

And  hope  forbids  one  ray 
To  stream  athwart  the  grief-discolor'd  sky ; 
There  breaks  upon  thy  sorrow's  evening  gloom 
A  trembling  lustre  from  beyond  the  tomb. 

'Tis  from  the  better  land ! 
There,  bathed  in  radiance  that  around  them  springs, 

Thy  loved  one's  wings  expand ; 
As  with  the  choiring  cherubim  he  sings, 
And  all  the  glory  of  that  GOD  can  see, 
Who  said,  on  earth,  to  children,  '  Come  to  me.' 

Mother,  thy  child  is  bless'd: 
And  though  his  presence  may  be  lost  to  thee, 

And  vacant  leave  thy  breast, 
And  miss'd,  a  sweet  load  from  thy  parent  knee ; 
Though  tones  familiar  from  thine  ear  have  pass'd, 
Thou'lt  meet  thy  first-born  with  his  LORD  at  last. 


THE 


19 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-25m-6,'66(G3855s4)458 


266052 

PS1299 

Clark,  W.O.  C3 

Literary  remains  of     Lf> 
the  late  Willis  Gaylord 
Clark. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


